GIFT   OF 


THE  CLAW 


Copyright  1914 

Out    West   Magazine, 

LOS  ANGELES,  CAL. 


THE  CLAW 

With  a  great  happiness  and  gratitude 
I  dedicate  this  book  to  three:  to  my 
father,  whose  constant  and  grieved  con 
cern  for  the  things  of  temperance  has 
pushed  my  hand  to  the  work;  to  my 
mother,  whose  sweet  and  valiant  soul 
was  always  in  the  Cause  and  whose 
presence  I  often  realized  as  I  wrote  ;  to 
the  grand-father  I  never  knew,  who  set 
the  principles  of  his  line  in  his  answer 
to  the  oft  put  question,  "Tammas,  why 
is  it  we  dinna  see  ye  drinkin?" 

"H/eel,  man,  a've  been  tbinkin'  this 
while  back  that  a've  never  seen  ony  gudefrae 
th'  drink,  but  muckle  trouble  an'  I  juist 
thocht  it  were  a  gude  thing  to  let  alane" 


THE  CLAW 

BY 

KATHERINE  ELSPETH  OLIVER 


LOS  ANGELES,  CAL. 

Out  West  Magazine 

1914 


THE  CLAW 

CHAPTER    I 

Some  lands  are  made  for  yielding  man's  common  needs: 
wheat  for  his  bread,  cotton  for  his  clothes,  lumber  for  his 
houses,  coal  to  keep  him  warmed.  Others  minister  to  his 
luxuries — the  things  of  his  imagination.  Such  lands  are  the 
proper  home  of  the  idealist.  He  adds  to  his  daily  toil  dreams 
and  visions;  his  hands  are  working  with  precious  things — not 
the  things  that  keep  him  in  brute  existence,  but  that  nourish 
the  prince  and  god  in  him.  At  such  toil  men  may  give  a  life 
time  and  see  age  and  the  end,  with  nothing  in  their  hands. 
Yet  they  have  lived — lived  a  compound  life;  the  actual  and 
the  dream,  the  reality  and  the  trance,  and  the  latter,  like  an 
anesthetic,  has  deadened  the  senses  to  material  things  whi'e 
it  loosed  the  spirit  to  the  compensations  of  the  visionary  world. 

The  Valley  of  the  San  Joaquin,  regal  in  its  spread  from  the 
Sacramento  to  the  gate  of  the  Tehachapi,  from  the  dim  high 
rim  of  the  Sierras  to  the  Coast  Range,  a  valley,  soft  veiled  with 
tawny  haze  of  mornings,  at  noon  baring  its  broad  expanse  to 
the  summer's  trial  by  fire — at  night,  reached  by  the  balm  of  the 
hills  winds,  and  dreaming  under  starlight  or  the  high  moon — 
the  Valley  of  the  San  Joaquin  is  a  land  made  to  bring  forth 
dream  stuffs. 

Gold  was  the  gift  of  the  valley  hard  by — but  gold  is  a  fierce 
joy,  it  breeds  fever,  madness.  The  gift  of  the  San  Joaquin 
was  a  quieter  one — portion  of  man's  dream  of  contentment, 
of  comradeship,  of  hospitality,  of  all  kindly  joys;  the  gift  of 
the  San  Joaquin  was  wine. 


12'-:  ••'•'•TH'E    CLAW 

"Father  says  the  beef  must  be  ready  at  twelve  on  the  minute." 

A  stocky  lad  of  twelve  stood  beside  the  pit  where  two  five 
hundred  pound  beeves  had  been  roasting  slowly  the  past  ten 
hours  under  the  watchful  care  of  Garcia  Ortega,  the  major 
domo,  chef  extraordinary,  whose  attention  was  equally  divided 
between  this  interest  and  the  great  pots  of  frijoles  boiling  over 
the  ruddy  fires  close  by.  The  barbecue  of  La  Mesa  Vineyard 
was  an  annual  event,  one  that  ranked  first  among  the  numerous 
social  functions  of  that  favorite  rendezvous  and  gave  to  the 
master  of  the  vineyard,  Douglas  Cameron,  the  name  of  the 
largest  handed  man  in  the  valley. 

"And  my  father  says,  Ortega,"  imperiously  ammended  a 
handsome  faced  youth  of  sixteen,  wheeling  a  nervous  broncho 
to  a  standstill  so  impetously  as  to  throw  a  flurry  of  dust  over 
his  brother  and  the  watching  Ortega,  "My  father  says  that 
you  have  not  brought  a  quarter  of  enough  wine  from  the 
cellars.  He's  expecting  at  least  two  hundred  guests,  not 
including  the  Senator's  party." 

"Holy  Mother!  You  make  a  dust,"  exclaimed  the  Mexican 
in  ill  humor.  "And  does  your  father  think  me  the  Christ, 
to  make  wine  out  of  water  or  expand  the  bread  and  fishes? 
I  might  even  do  that  for  him,"  he  added,  "if  he  would  let  me 
know  in  time.  Yesterday  it  was  one  hundred  and  fifty  he 
expected.  The  day  before,  one  hundred,  'surely  not  more  than 
one  hundred — but  you  may  prepare  for  a  few  over,  Ortega 
that  there  be  no  skimping.'  But  it  is  the  way  with  your 
father!"  The  man  laughed  indulgently.  "He  is  not  content 
without  the  whole  valley.  He  is  a  worthy  successor  of  Don 
Senor  Antonio  from  which  he  had  the  land,  if  his  name  is 
spelled  Douglas,  and  his  son  is  like  him."  He  made  a  low  and 
grave  obeisance,  scanning  with  deep  admiration,  the  gallant 
figure  of  young  Douglas,  sitting  his  saddle  with  nonchalant 
grace. 


THE    CLAW  13 

"Ye're  as  free  wit  ye  re  blarney  as  me  Irish  ancestor," 
laughed  Douglas,  but  he  appropriated  the  Mexican's  flattery 
as  he  was  wont  to  do  such  tributes,  with  the  utmost  confidence 
that  it  was  due. 

"All  right,  Ortega,  see  that  everything's  O.  K.  I'm  going 
back,  Duncan" — to  his  brother — "to  see  to  the  decorations  of 
the  pavillion,  and  look  up  my  Highland  togs  for  the  dance 
tonight." 

"All  right — tell  father  I'll  be  back  in  time."  Douglas  was 
gone,  enveloping  man  and  boy  again  in  his  dust.  The  old 
man  pulled  off  his  sombrero  and  shook  out  the  dirt,  then  he 
reached  for  a  great  iron  spoon  on  the  bench  beside  him  and 
cautiously  lifting  the  lid  from  one  of  the  pots,  dipped  in  and 
brought  out  a  savory  portion.  He  blew  on  it,  then  tasted 
cautiously,  judiously,  with  the  air  of  the  connoisseur  he  was. 

He  shook  his  head  approvingly  and  grunted.  The  younger 
lad  was  close  beside  him  watching  with  utmost  interest. 

"All  right,  Ortega?"  he  asked  anxiously. 

"Mucho  buenol"  exclaimed  the  Mexican,  smacking  his 
lips.  He  dipped  another  spoonful  for  the  boy. 

"But  we  must  have  more  fire.  Madre  de  Dios,  but  my  old 
legs  are  stiff  today  from  the  hurry  of  the  work  and  the  much 
walking  back  and  forth  to  these  infernal  pots!" 

"You  stay,  Ortega — I'll  get  the  wood."  He  was  off,  drag 
ging  from  the  pile  of  heavy  oak  near  by  great  limbs  that  he 
pushed  under  the  kettle,  feeding  them  with  smaller  twigs 
till  they  made  a  flame  from  which  Ortega  was  obliged  to  move 
precipitously.  He  worked  with  splendid  energy.  Younger 
by  four  years  than  his  brother,  he  was  stronger.  His  young 
muscles  were  like  steel  from  much  activity  at  the  heavy  work 
of  the  vineyard.  Ortega  resumed  his  seat  contentedly  and 
began  the  rolling  of  a  cigarette.  He  never  failed  to  "work"  the 
youngest  master,  and  did  so  unshamefacedly.  From  Douglas 


14  THE     CLAW 

he  would  never  dream  of  soliciting;  a  favor.  Favors  belonged 
to  Douglas. 

"He  is  a  good  boy/'  mused  Ortega,  watching  the  lad  through 
the  haze  of  his  cigarette,  "but  his  brother  is  smarter.  His 
brother  makes  people  work  for  him." 

Meantime  Douglas,  issuing  orders  like  a  young  prince  to  a 
band  of  young  men  and  girls,  the  help  of  the  place,  quickly 
transformed  the  rustic  dancing  pavilion  on  the  lawn,  into  a 
bower  of  flags  and  bunting  in  which  the  English  and  Ameri 
can  emblems  were  ingeniously  combined.  Here  the  tables 
would  be  spread.  The  circumstance  of  a  fractured  elbow 
held  in  a  heavy  cast  excused  active  participation  in  the  work 
and  added  necessity  to  the  role  of  dictator,  a  wholly  compatible 
one. 

"If  everything's  finished  I'll  call  my  father  to  see  it."  He 
sprang  up  the  broad  steps  of  the  veranda  from  which  the 
pavilion  was  reached  by  a  wide  pergola  hung  with  languorous 
grape  vines.  In  a  moment  the  two  appeared  at  the  pavilion 
entrance. 

Framed  in  the  doorway,  the  arm  of  the  man  thrown  affec 
tionately  about  the  shoulders  of  the  boy,  the  two  presented 
to  those  within  a  charming  picture. 

To  have  seen  the  son  was  to  be  prepared  or  seeing  the 
father.  Indeed,  the  odd  and  unconscious  assumption  by  which 
he  invariably  used  the  personal  pronoun  before  his  father's 
name,  was  explained  when  the  two  were  together.  Cameron 
was  Douglas'  father  in  every  sense  of  the  word.  From  Cameron 
he  drew  the  high,  imperative  spirit,  the  quick  mind,  the  master 
ful  manner.  The  physical  characteristics  were  even  more 
marked.  Framed  in  the  doorway,  half  stooping  to  meet  the 
stature  of  his  son,  Cameron  was  a  noble  figure;  slender  but 
strong,  elegant  with  the  bearing  and  address  of  the  gentleman 
and  scholar,  yet  with  the  genial  accessibility  of  the  man  of 


THE     CLA\Y  15 


the  world  and  the  comaraderie  of  the  good  fellow. 
qualities  were  accentutated  by  the  ingratiation  of  his  smile, 
the  grace  of  his  unconscious  jestures,  the  poise  of  his  fine  head, 
carried  high  and  crowned  with  a  sweep  of  jet  black  hair.  He 
was  a  man  marked,  distinguished,  fitted  by  nature  and  educa 
tion  for  a  leader  in  any  social  or  intellectual  circles  in  which 
his  life  was  cast.  There  was  no  doubt  of  his  position  in  the 
new  community,  made  up  largely  of  his  own  countrymen 
attracted  to  the  valley  by  ambitions  similar  to  his  own. 

Of  all  those  who  saw  the  vineyard  industry  of  the  valley  with 
the  eyes  of  the  enthusiast  Cameron  was  the  most  enthralled. 
He  was  the  chief  exponent,  the  high-priest,  the  interpreter  of 
the  industry  in  its  highest  form  and  significance.  It  was  worth 
while  to  hear  Cameron  enunciate  his  faith,  voice  his  visions. 
The  most  hopeless  literalistr  the  most  practical  of  individuals, 
bent  wholly  on  proceeds  and  profits  could  not  resist  his  spirit 
when,  glass  in  hand,  with  eyes  half  closed,  focussing  some  idyllic 
future,  he  decanted  on  his  ambitions  to  promote  on  a  noble 
scale  the  industry,  at  once  the  most  primitive  and  classic  of 
mankind:  to  see  the  valley  a  picture  of  contented  pastoral 
life,  a  valley  of  homes  and  vineyards,  of  wholesome  toil,  of  mater 
ial  prosperity,  the  invoker  of  all  this  human  felicity,  man's 
friend,  sung  in  chronicle  and  story,  Wine. 

To  his  dissertation  Cameron  added  the  persuasions  of  argu 
ment,  the  ornament  of  legends  and  stories,  words  of  the  poets 
and  quaint  unheard  of  phrases  from  the  many  tongues  he 
knew,  together  with  his  own  ingenious  wit,  and  the  listener 
sat  enthralled  if  not  convinced.  His  temper  was  combined 
us  is  frequent  in  such  personalities  with  an  utter  lack  of  the 
practical  point. 

From  these  circumstances,  Cameron,  who  once  was  rich, 
was  fast  becoming  poor.  His  large  holdings,  which  his  char 
acteristic  enthusiasm  impelled  him  to  purchase  recklessly,  con- 


16  THE    CLAW 

sisted  of  all  manner  of  investments:  town  lots  and  country 
acres:  half  a  dozen  building  blocks  in  the  ambitious  new  city 
close  at  hand;  an  experiment  in  the  form  of  a  raisin  candy 
factory;  a  new  theater  built  with  the  philanthropic  purpose  of 
bringing  entertainment  to  a  community  lacking  in  the  drama 
and  other  forms  of  art,  and  for  the  opening  of  which  he  as 
sembled,  at  fabulous  price,  a  company  of  New  York  actors; 
and  a  newspaper  which  he  edited  for  the  exploitation  of  the 
valley's  industries  and  which  experienced  so  precarious  an 
existence  as  to  discourage  all  patrons  not  wholly  enthralled 
by  the  editor's  enthus'asm:  last  of  all  La  Mesa  Vineyard  of 
five  hundred  acres. 

With  the  naivete  of  a  child  Cameron  borrowed  from  his 
friends  when  his  funds  went  low  and  there  was  not  one,  such 
was  the  personality  of  the  man,  who  did  not  feel  it  an  honor 
to  "help  out"  Cameron.  His  gratitude  was  effusive,  and 
sincere.  It  was  a  part  of  his  idealistic  concepts  to  exalt  the 
role  of  friend  and  invest  it  with  a  faith  and  chivalry  admirable 
but  extravagant. 

His  wife  was  a  pale,  serviceable  woman.  Met  during  an 
idyllic  student  outing  in  a  picturesque  Perthshire  village,  he 
fell  in  love  and  married  her  for  her  complexion.  A  poem  to 
"Jeanie's  Blushes''  by  the  enamored  youth  won  him  his  first 
self  earned  "five  pound."  The  incident  was  prophetic  of  the 
future  service  of  his  wife  to  Cameron.  The  eulogized  complex 
ion  faded  with  the  birth  of  their  first  child,  and  Jeanie  slipped 
simultaneously  into  her  place  as  the  conservitor  of  Cameron's 
material  needs.  None  ever  served  a  master  with  more  single 
ness  of  heart.  Whatever  coquetry  she  might  formerly  have 
possessed  that  contributed  to  Douglas'  youthful  infatuation 
vanished  in  the  overwhelming  marvel  that  he  had  made  her 
his  wife,  and  induced  a  humility  and  devotion  that  eliminated 


THE     CLAW  17 

effectually  her  own  personality.  She  had  borne  him  many 
children  all  of  whom,  but  two  sons,  had  died  in  infancy. 

Between  the  two  sons  Jeanie  had  succeeded  in  rearing  for 
her  husband,  the  cleavage  of  likeness  was  as  perfect  as  between 
father  and  mother. 

Duncan  was  his  mother's  son,  as  Douglas  was  his  father's. 
He  had  her  blue  eyes  and  fair  hair,  her  industry  and  self  efface- 
ment.  In  fact,  there  had  always  seemed  to  be  from  his  earliest 
consciousness,  an  instinctive  compact  between  mother  and 
son,  an  understanding  of  partnership  in  the  service  of  father 
and  son. 

La  Mesa  Vineyard  had  been  purchased  by  Cameron  from 
the  heirs  of  Manuel  Garcia,  and  comprised  one  of  the  fine  old 
Mexican  land  grants.  It  ran  along  the  river  and  up  to  the 
foothills,  the  lower  land  cultivated,  the  rising  mesa,  that  the 
new  viticulturalists  found  to  be  the  best  of  all  soil  suited  to 
vineyard  purposes,  was  given  over  to  Ortega's  herds.  Cameron 
had  bought  the  entire  estate  and  set  the  whole  vast  acreage 
out  to  wine  grapes  of  the  finest  variety. 

The  place  had  been  worked  for  years  by  the  same  men, 
old  help  and  their  children,  born  and  reared  on  the  land. 
Cameron  retained  them.  They  were  Mexicans  of  a  superior 
grade,  self  respecting,  excellent  workers  and  faithful.  The 
vine}rard  regime  was  not  unlike  that  of  the  large  English  estate 
and  Cameron's  blood  was  such  as  to  contribute  to  his  other 
qualities  those  of  an  ideal  master. 

The  young  people  greeted  him  with  the  vidences  of  devo 
tion  remarked  by  all  visitors  to  the  vineyard  and  the  naive 
flattery  the  eloquence  of  which  is  possessed  by  the  raggedest 
cholo. 


"Buenos  dias,  Senor.     Me  alegro  mucho  de  ver  a  Usted.   Como 
esta  Usted  de  salud?" 


18  THE    CLAW. 

Cameron  answered  them  in  kind.  He  was  versed  in  the 
tongue  and  it  pleased  him  to  retain  it's  use  in  his  intercourse 
with  them.  He  inspected  the  pavilion  with  appreciative 
interest,  then  retired  to  prepare  to  receive  his  guests. 

They  were  already  arriving.  From  all  directions  they  came, 
a  picturesque  cavalcade.  A  half  dozen  years  later,  purring 
motor  cars  would  have  brought  Cameron's  guests  to  his  door, 
so  rapid  has  been  the  age  of  travel  evolution.  Today  it  was 
the  smart  stepping  team  of  thoroughbreds  and  the  luxurious 
deep  seated  carriage,  the  stylish  trap,  or  the  light  run-about, 
the  ranchman's  serviceable  rig.  The  vehicles  were  accompanied 
by  a  laughing  racing  escort  of  men  and  maidens  on  horseback. 
in  a1!  manner  of  riding  dress  from  the  effected  riding  togs  of 
the  newly  arrived  Englishman  to  the  easy  native  equipment 
of  the  man  or  girl  "born  in  saddle.  ' 

It  was  a  hybrid  occasion  that  Cameron  conceived  in  his 
yearly  fiesta.  The  barbecue,  at  noon,  was  characterized  by 
all  the  features  of  the  native  celebration.  Diversion,  follow 
ing  the  feast  marked  by  all  the  delicacies  of  Mexican  cuisine, 
would  be  provided  during  the  afternoon  when  the  music  of 
castinets  and  mandolins  would  stir  the  drowsy  air  and  pic 
turesque  dancers  step  off  the  graceful  fandango  and  Cacbucha. 

In  the  evening  the  scene  would  be  transformed.  Latin 
evidences  and  tokens  would  be  exchanged  for  Celtic;  the  bag 
pipes  for  the  mandolins,  the  scones  for  the  tortillas,  the  plaidio 
and  ribboned  cap  in  place  of  the  reboso  and  the  sombrero 
and  where  swarthy  men  and  maids  moved  in  the  languorous 
steps  of  the  southern  dances.  Donald,  of  Campbell's  vineyard, 
and  Noble's  Maggie,  Georgie  Moore,  and  Annie  Elliot,  Bonnie 
Lizzie  Murray  and  one  of  Dunn's  two  braw  sons,  just  arrived 
the  week  end  from  Glasgow — you  can  tell  the  newcomer  by  the 
blisters  under  his  pink  skin — are  putting  through  the  Scotch 


THE    CLAW  19 

reel,  the  dance  which,  as  an  endurance  test,  has  not  been  sur 
passed  by  any  terpischorean  rival. 

But  Cameron  was  not  narrow'  in  his  hospitality.  In  his 
company  was  to  be  found  not  his  countrymen  only.  Cameron, 
many  sided,  welcomed  any  whose  temper  or  talents  might 
make  them  worthy  sue  a  host.  He  admired  any  man  who 
was  doing  things,  and  there  were  many  of  that  kind  in  the 
new  colony.  His  barbecue  was  remarkable  as  a  rallying  place 
for  the  builders  of  the  new  commonwealth;  the  twang  of  the 
Yankee,  the  colloquialisms  of  the  middle  easterner,  wisdom 
propounded  in  terms  of  Pike  County  philosophers,  the  flam- 
boyancy  of  the  westerner,  and  the  Scotch  "bur-rr"  were 
mingled  sounds  in  the  strange  and  pregnant  assembly — this 
potpouri  of  men,  the  fabric  of  the  industrial  west. 

Cameron  met  his  friends  with  characteristic  hospitality 
and  shortly  there  was  the  good  sound  of  men's  deep  throated 
laughter  and  the  gentle-women's  voices.  It  was  a  notable  com 
pany  that  Cameron  had  assembled,  representative  not  only 
of  the  versatility  of  the  new  citizenship,  but  of  the  choice. 

As  usual,  Cameron  was  his  own  toast-master,  and  there 
were  none  who  could  surpass  him,  none  who  could  launch 
his  guests  more  sucessively  on  a  smooth  tide  of  social  inter 
course,  lending  to  each  just  the  proper  cue  to  whit  his  wit 
and  call  forth  the  response  that  otherwise  he  would  have  groped 
for. 

Cameron  launched  for  his  peroration  his  favorite  topic, 
"The  Industry."  Old  as  was  the  theme,  his  versatility  dressed 
it  in  new  and  engrossing  form.  But  in  the  midst  he  paused 
and  concluded  with  an  abrupt  digression. 

"But,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  I  have  been  remiss.  I  have  failed 
to  state  the  real  motive  of  this  occasion.  We  speak  of  'West 
ern  time,'  and  at  the  Rockies  we  find  we  are  behind  and  we 
set  up  our  time  pieces.  Western  time  my  friends  is  fast. 


20  THE     CLAW 

It  sets  a  new  speed  limit.  Men  grow  old  in  its  exigencies  and 
the  country  asks  for  new  ones.  I  have  been  envisioning  for 
you  an  era  which  belongs  not  to  us,  but  to  our  sons.  Already 
it  is  time  for  me,  who  thought  myself  a  youth  yesterday,  to 
step  aside  for  the  youth  of  today. 

"This  is  the  birthday  of  my  eldest  son.  He  is  sixteen  today. 
This  is  his  feast.  He  doesn't  know  it,  I  think,  but  neverthe 
less,  it  is — we'll  let  him  speak  for  himself.  We'll  see  what  he 
has  to  say  for  his  friends."  It  was  a  test  for  any  lad,  one  that 
few  father's  would  have  dared  to  make.  It  was  characteristic 
that  Cameron  should  have  conceived  it. 

All  eyes  were  on  young  Douglas.  He  sat  in  becoming  ob 
scurity  at  the  end  of  the  table,  arranged  for  the  younger  mem 
bers  of  the  company.  Secure  in  his  oblivion  he  was  quite 
ignoring  the  ceremonies.  In  fact  he  was  better  engaged. 
With  ingratiating  manner  and  fascinating  smile,  he  was  bend 
ing  toward  a  little  Miss  at  his  side,  a  brilliant  young  creature 
with  the  shy  bold  eyes  of  twelve  who  feels  womanhood  stirring 
in  her  child's  being.  Already  the  subtle  outlines  of  her  young 
bosom  spoke  of  dawning  maturity,  the  maturity  the  west 
induces  early.  The  child,  was  in  the  curve  of  her  pouting 
lips,  the  woman  lent  her  the  coquetry  that  regarded  the  youth 
from  under  dropping  lids,  half  shy — half  saucy.  Douglas  was 
teasing  the  long  curl  that  hung  over  h  r  shoulder. 

There  was  a  moment  of  breathless  pause.  The  boy,  of  an 
instant  the  center  of  all  eyes,  turned  scarlet  and  dropped  the 
entangl  ng  lock,  while  his  small  charmer  hid  her  blushes  in 
her  curls.  Then  slowly,  with  inimitable  grace  and  utmost 
leisure,  young  Douglas  rose.  His  face  was  pale  but  his  eyes 
were  sure.  He  began  slowly,  enunciating  with  care  but  un 
embarrassed.  His  composed  gaze  took  in  the  entire  assembl 
age. 

•'Mr.  Toastmaster,"  he  bowed  with  a  graceful  jesture  toward 


THE    CLAW  21 

Cameron,  "Ladies  and  Gentlemen:  I  was  certainty  not  aware 
of  the  courtesy  prepared  for  me.  It  was  more  than  I  could 
have  thought  of — dreamed  of.  My  appreciation  for  the  honor 
is  not  to  be  put  into  words.  For,  if  I  differ  with  my  father,  and 
our  master  of  ceremonies,  I  am  not  yet  a  man — just  a  boy — and 
that  I  should  have  the  pleasure  and  honor  of  receiving  this 
brilliant  company  as  my  guests  overwhelms  me. 

"But  I  would  not  be  a  worthy  son  of  my  father "• — again  the 
jesture  of  charming  grace  and  deference — "if  I  had  no  words 
with  which  to  extend  you  hospitality. 

"It  is  my  feast — my  day!"  He  threw  back  his  shoulders 
with  an  unconscious  motion  of  new  dignity  and  power.  "Very 
well — I  could  not  hope  to  celebrate  it  more  auspiciously  than 
in  the  company  of  you,  my  father's  friends.  My  day?  Then 
I  propose  my  own  toast:  may  I  lend  it — my  day — as  dis 
tinguished  service  as  have  you,  whose  day  is  not  yet  over!" 
He  raised  his  glass  with  ineffable  grace  and  drank.  With  a 
smile  and  a  modest  inclination  of  the  head  that  included  in 
its  deference,  all,  he  sat  down.  His  cheeks  were  scarlet. 

Cameron  had  stood  during  the  incident  with  eyes  intent  on 
the  lad.  From  watchful  expectancy  his  expression  ran  a 
gamut  of  successive  emotions.  A  characteristic  gesture  as 
when  he  had  turned  a  lucky  card  showed  his  surprise  and 
pleasure  when  the  boy  rose  to  his  feet  and  with  self-composure 
began  to  speak: 

"Right!  The  lad  has  poise  and  resources — modesty,  too,  by 
Gad!" 

His  winning  reference  to  Cameron's  hospitality  touched  the 
father — but  the  toast!  He  could  not  himself  have  worded  a 
more  delicate  phrase,  that  included  at  once  modesty,  self-pride 
and  homage  to  his  friends.  It  was  a  classic. 

He  had  a  boy  after  his  own  heart — a  lad  of  intellect  and  ap 
preciation — a  man  of  parts.  For  once,  in  his  pride  and  delight, 


22  THE    CLAW 

words  failed  the  elder  Douglas.  Frank  tears  stood  in  his  eyes. 
In  the  surprised  silence  that  followed  the  boy's  speech,  a  silence 
more  appreciative  e  en  than  the  burst  of  prolonged  applause 
that  succeeded  it,  Cameron  reached  across  the  table  and  gripped 
the  boy's  hand;  their  eyes  met  and  held  in  communion  deep 
and  affecting. 

The  dinner  advanced  with  increasing  gaiety.  The  unlooked- 
for  circumstance  of  Douglas'  debut  proved  a  stimulating  one. 
There  was  no  doubt  in  the  minds  of  Cameron's  friends  that  the 
incident  was  as  impromptu  as  it  seemed  on  young  Douglas' 
part.  The  boy's  startled  look  upon  his  father's  announcement 
could  not  have  been  simulated.  It  was  like  Cameron  to  have 
conceived  such  reckless  confidence  in  his  son.  Douglas' 
response  had  made  a  deep  impression  on  the  guests.  The  lad 
was  worthy  of  his  father.  His  address  was  a  remarkable 
evidence  of  resource  and  self-command  in  a  mere  lad.  Cam 
eron's  friends  took  the  boy  to  their  hearts — their  company. 
Not  a  toast  followed  without  complimentary  reference  to 
Douglas  and  his  brilliant  response,  and  Cameron,  who  was  at 
his  best  in  a  social  atmosphere  of  his  own  creating,  expanded 
with  increasing  pride  and  delight  at  realization  of  his  son's 
triumph. 

The  banquet  over,  the  company  broke  up  into  groups, 
invited  by  their  host  to  seek  their  own  pleasure  during  a  brief 
siesta  before  the  afternoon  gaieties  should  begin.  The  women 
repaired  to  the  house  where  Jeanie  extended  the  comfort  of 
the  darkened  rooms  in  which — the  shades  having  been  drawn 
with  the  first  rays  of  the  sun — the  temperature  of  early  morning 
prevailed.  The  men  smoked  and  wandered  about  the  lawn  or 
lounged  on  the  broad  piazzas.  Indolence  marked  the  greater 
number,  but  a  group  established  in  the  wicker  chairs  of  the 
pavilion  porch  were  engaged  in  animated  talk.  Of  these  the 
Senator  and  Duncan  formed  the  natural  center.  Murray, 


THE    CLAW  23 

Campbell,  Bernardetti,  Whitten  and  Blythe,  prominent  vine 
yard  men  of  the  community,  were  included  in  the  group. 

"I  don't  know  why,  if  Cameron  is  willing,  we  can't  put  this 
business  through  right  now,"  said  Mr.  Campbell.  "It  will 
mean  something,  Douglas,  to  have  your  place  the  scene  of  the 
first  co-operative  association  of  growers  that  succeeds  in 
bucking  the  California  Wine  Association,"  he  added  with  a 
laugh.  "I  can  see  this  day  notable  in  the  annals  of  viticultur- 
al  history.  And  we've  got  the  Senator  here  with  us,  too. 
The  side  that  has  the  Senator  wins  out,  you  know,  these  days." 
The  men  laughed  approvingly.  "Sure!  But  maybe  this  Sena 
tor's  already  spoken  for,"  threw  in  Blythe. 

"How  about  it?"  they  joked.  "Believe  we  saw  your  name 
'among  those  present'  at  the  annual  banquet  of  the  Wine 
Association  last  week  at  the  St.  Francis!" 

The  Senator  laughed  amiably,  and  flecked  the  ashes  from 
his  fragrant  cigar.  He  was  a  handsome  man  with  indolent 
bearing,  but  a  swift  eye  that  unsheathed  on  the  moment. 

"A  Senator  is  only  a  man,"  he  said,  "and  a  man  never  re 
fuses  the  prospects  of  a  good  dinner.  None  of  you  suggests,  I 
suppose,  that  Cameron  feted  me  today  on  his  best  with  an  eye 
to  getting  an  appropriation  for  his  raisin  candy  experiment?" 
There  was  an  uproar  at  the  host's  expense,  in  which  Cameron 
joined.  He  pulled  a  handful  of  coin  from  his  pocket. 

"It's  ten  to  one  that  I  declare  dividends  before  this  Asso 
ciation  does,"  he  declared,  and  the  laugh  was  turned.  "But 
go  to  it  men!  Delighted  to  lend  my  premises  for  the  purpose 
and  thereby  share  in  whatever  fame  is  forthcoming,  since  it's 
the  only  share  I  expect  to  hold  in  the  enterprise." 

"What's  the  matter,  ar'n't  you  going  into  this,  Cameron?" 
asked  the  Senator. 

"Not  I,  and  for  two  very  good  reasons.  First,  I  haven't  the 
money.  My  funds  are  tied  up  in  other  ways — in  my  raisin 


24  THE    CLAW 

candy  folly  and  others.  But,  besides,  I've  no  mind  for  dealing 
with  the  business  end  of  the  industry — the  marketing  end. 
You  know  me.  I've  dipped  into  a  lot  of  things  here,  like 
most  folks  that  had  a  little  money  to  squander.  It's  the  way 
of  the  country.  You're  first  on  the  ground.  Your  head  is 
turned — things  look  so  devilish  promising,  you  know.  And 
you  grab  all  ways  at  once.  But,  really,  the  only  thing  I  want, 
and  the  only  thing  I'm  fit  for  is  to  engage  in  a  business  where 
the  Almighty  and  a  few  Mexicans  do  the  work  and  I  reap  the 
proceeds.  This,  I  take  it,  is  the  vineyard  industry.  I've 
been  looking  for  just  such  a  thing  all  my  life  and  now  I've 
found  it  I  propose  to  stay  with  it.  If  these  gentlemen  find  a 
way  of  co-operating  with  Providence  and  controlling  prices 
to  our  benefit  I'm  perfectly  willing,  and  say,  'God  Speed' — but 
theirs  is  the  pleasure,  not  mine." 

"Cameron's  confidence  in  Providence  is  commendable," 
commented  Whitten,  "and  his  ambitions  not  to  interfere  by 
his  own  efforts,  worthy.  But  the  trouble  is,  as  you  know, 
Senator,  the  California  Wine  Association  is  a  bigger  institution 
than  Providence  now-a-days,  and  we  growers  are  being  squeezed. 
We  don't  propose  to  have  't  so  and  believe  the  way  to  pry  'em 
loose  is  to  organize." 

"And  you  think  you  can  beat  their  game?" 

"We  can  try.  We  surely  have  to  do  something.  A  man 
can't  live  at  present  prices;  with  grapes  bringing  only  six 
dollars  a  ton  at  the  wineries.  What  do  you  suppose  a  man 
gets  out  of  that?  He  doesn't  pay  the  interest  on  the  invest 
ment,  let  alone  the  running  expenses  of  his  place.  In  other 
words  he's  in  a  hole." 

"That's  what  the  California  Wine  Association  paid  last 
year — six  dollars?"  queried  a  man  in  the  group  bearing  the 
unmistakable  signs  of  the  new-comer. 

"That's  what  they  paid,  and  by  the  way,  Mr.  Jones,  as  one 


THE     CLAW  25 

of  the  new  and  heaviest  owners  of  vineyard  acreage  in  the 
county,  you  ought  to  be  mighty  interested  in  this  proposition. 
Senator,  this  is  Mr.  Jones,  of  Missouri.  He's  just  bought 
three  hundred  acres  west  of  town,  that  he's  going  to  set  out 
to  wine  grapes. 

"Mr.  Campbell,  Mr.  Murray — Mr.  Jones.  You've  met 
Mr  Blythe  already,  I  believe. 

"Yes  sir.  To  return  to  the  proposition,  we  got  the  munifi 
cent  sum  of  six  dollars  a  ton  for  our  best  wine  grapes,  delivered, 
last  fall.  They  offered  us  four  dollars  for  the  second  crop, 
Muscats,  and  most  of  us  kept  'em  and  fed  'em  to  the  stock." 

"This  California  Wine  Association — it  handles  the  wine- 
grape  crop  of  the  State?  It  controls  prices?  In  other  words, 
it's  a  big  monopolizing  agency — both  buying  and  selling — and 
made  up.  of  wine  men?" 

"Whist,  mon!  Ther-r-r  no  wine  men  at  a'.  It's  a  cor-r- 
poration  on  paper,  that's  what  it  is.  Capiteelists  you  say — 
yes,  that's  made  their  money  some  w'y  and  ony 
w'y!"  It  was  Murray  breaking  into  the  conversation  with 
vigorous  and  angry  burr-r.  He  was  one  of  the  Independents 
who,  at  the  expense  of  much  pains  and  money  had  built  up  a 
thriving  winery,  and  was  being  hard  pushed  by  the  encroaching 
association. 

"Murray  is  right,"  answered  Whitten,  "it's  made  up  largely 
of  capitalists,  San  Francisco  money  mainly;  the  wealthy  Jews 
of  the  Bay;  the  owners  of  the  big  wholesale  and  retail  houses  up 
and  down  the  coast  and  valley." 

"And  they  make  a  good  thing  out  of  it?" 

"Well,  rather",  replied  Whittier.  "With  brandy  retailing  at 
$2.00  a  gallon,  and  other  liquors  accordingly.  It  rather 
looks  as  if  they  made  something. 

"They've  got  their  stock  excuses  for  giving  us  the  little  end 
of  the  handle.  Too  much  vineyard  acreage ;  insufficient  demand 


26  THE    CLAW 

for  the  product;  Eastern  markets  reluctant  to  handle  Cali 
fornia  goods — foreign  wine  preferred;  the  Association  at  a  big 
expense  to  exploit  our  interests." 

"It's  all  right — there  is  a  big  expense  attached",  said 
Campbell.  " We're  willing  that  they  should  make  their 
share,  but  with  the  present  quotation  on  California 
liquors  I  guess  they're  doing  it,  and  there's  a  chance 
for  them  to  have  it,  and  at  the  same  time  for  the 
grower  to  live.  That  s  not  their  idea,  however,  and  it's 
time  we  broke  into  the  game. 

"We  believe  by  organization  we  producers  can  utilize  our 
own  products,  manufacture  our  own  goods  and  get  it  in  the 
markets  with  profit  to  ourselves  and  without  skinning  the 
consumer,  either." 

"Maybe  so,"  answered  the  new-comer,  doubtfully,  "but  it's 
just  the  same  proposition  we  Middle-Easterners  are  up  against 
in  the  hog  trust,  and  the  beef  trust,  and  the  cotton  trust,  and 
everything  else  of  the  sort  where  capital  is  pitted  against  the 
individual,  or  aggregation  of  individuals.  You  think  you'll 
organize  as  independents  and  put  down  prices  to  a  reasonable 
amount  and  get  the  trade,  but  the  trouble  lies  with  the  'dear 
people.'  They're  going  to  buy  where  they  can  get  the  goods 
the  cheapest.  You  can  cut  prices  till  you're' black  in  the  face, 
but  the  big  business — the  trust — can  under-cut  you  every 
time.  And  the  producer — what  about  him?  Why,  he's  the 
fellow  that  gets  squeezed  from  start  to  finish  by  everybody." 
He  sighed  humorously. 

"Lord!  I  thought  I'd  left  such  things  behind  when  I  reached 
California,"  he  continued.  "I  thought  I'd  got  to  the  land 
of  perfection,  'where  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling,  an'  the 
weary  are  at  rest.'  '  The  men  laughed. 

"Why,  I  thought  the  California  Wine  Association  was  one 
of  the  benevolent  institutions  of  the  State  that  had  settled  the 


THE    CLAW  27 

problems  of  the  grower  to  the  complete  satisfaction  of  all. 
And  all  we  had  to  do  was  to  reap  our  harvests  and  coin  at 
frequent  and  regular  intervals.  That's  the  way  it  sounded  in 
the  prospectuses  your  Chamber  of  Commerce  sent  out  where 
it  gave  a  page  to  the  careful  analysis  of  the  marketing  methods 
of  the  industry.  And  I  took  it  all  in — swallowed  it  whole! 
That's  just  how  big  a  fool  a  man'll  be  even  after  he's  been  sold 
once  or  twice."  Cameron  interfered: 

"You're  getting  too  pessimistic,  Mr.  Jones.  This  won't  do. 
There's  money  in  a  vineyard — in  a  wine  vineyard.  There 
can't  help  but  be.  There  has  been  in  the  past,  and  there  will 
be  again.  The  California  Wine  Association  did  well  by  us 
when  it  was  first  organized,  but  we're  meeting  just  now  the 
same  thing  any  industry  does — the  re-adjustment  time — the 
time  of  the  bigger  proposition,  when  the  business  is  growing 
away  from  its  nurse  and  striking  out  for  itself.  The  Wine 
Association,  like  the  nurse,  would  like  to  keep  hold  of  the 
infant  a  while  longer.  She's  had  her  troubles,  nursing  it  along 
to  its  present  husky  condition,  and  now  that  it's  big  enough  to 
serve  her  she's  anxious  to  get  her  rewards.  But  of  course  it 
isn't  right,  and  the  infant's  bound  to  break  away  in  time. 
These  gentlemen  think  that  time  has  come,  right  now.  It'll 
undoubtedly  mean  a  few  years  of  experiment  and  perhaps 
some  hardship,  but  things  will  get  whipped  into  shape  again 
in  time  and  the  industry  will  forge  ahead  as  it  never  has  before." 

"Your  straight  proposition  is?"  pursued  the  Missourian. 
With  his  discoveries  he  was  anxious  to  get  at  the  heart  of  the 
matter  at  once. 

"There  are  five  of  us  here  who  are  putting  one  thousand 
dollars  each  into  a  business  we  will  call  the  Riverside  Co 
operative  Wine  Association,"  explained  Whittier.  " We're  all 
growers.  We  propose  to  manufacture  our  own  goods  from 


28  THE    CLAW 

our  own  grapes,  and  those  of  our  neighbors,  and  create  a 
market  for  it." 

" You'll  excuse  me,  won't  you,  gentlemen,"  said  Cameron, 
interrupting,  "I'll  have  to  go  and  look  after  the  comfort  of 
my  other  guests.  Go  right  ahead;  I'm  with  you  as  far  as  the 
moral  support  is  concerned,  and  the  product  of  my  five  hundred 
acres.  No,  by  Gad,  to  show  I'm  game,  I'll  get  into  the  deal — 
I'll  make  up  the  sixth  member,  and  I'd  advise  my  friend  here," 
indicating  the  Missourian,  "to  do  likewise." 

The  men  remained  in  further  counsel,  and  before  the  group 
had  broken  up  another  of  the  many  independent  wine  asso 
ciations  being  organized  at  this  period  throughout  the  valley, 
was  formed,  with  the  purpose  in  view  of  putting  up  successful 
competition  against  the  California  Wine  Association,  the 
principal  wine  marketing  organization  of  the  State,  and  a  trust 
of  powerful  influence. 

As  the  group  dispersed,  Cameron,  Whitten  and  the  Mis 
sourian  remained  in  desultory  conversation.  The  latter  was 
immensely  interested  in  the  gathering,  the  character  of  which, 
like  every  other  feature  of  the  country,  was  new  to  him.  His 
instincts  told  him  the  occasion  was  a  fine  opportunity  for 
learning  the  personnel  of  the  community  and  the  men  with 
whom  later,  as  a  citizen  and  larger  producer,  he  would  have 
much  to  do.  He  was  not  slow  in  asking  questions,  his  enter 
prise  in  that  line  and  his  shrewd  deductions  rapidly  acquaint 
ing  him  with  the  local  situation. 

"Who's  that  man  over  there  with  the  bald  head  and  the 
large  shelf  in  front?"  he  asked  Whitten,  indicating  a  portly 
gentleman  occupying  a  comfortable,  easy  chair  on  the  veranda. 

"That's  the  State  Controller,  Smith.  He  came  with  the 
Senator's  party." 

"Hum!  Should  think  he  might  be  able  to  control  things  if 
he  took  a  notion  to  sit  on  'em  hard.  And  the  woman  that's 


THE    CLAW  29 

just  coming  out  of  the  door  with  the  funny-doodles  in  her  hair 
and  the  don't-remember-to-have-met-you  expression?" 

"That's  the  Senator's  wife,  I  believe,"  answered  Whitten  in 
some  amusement. 

"An'  those  men  Cameron's  walking  with  and  talking  to  so 
affable-like  just  now?" 

"That's  Overmeyer  and  Layton,  two  of  the  board  members 
of  the  California  Wine  Association — San  Francisco  men." 
The  man's  jaw  dropped. 

"Well  I'll  be  gol  darned.  Say— I  cain't  get  ust  to  this  kid- 
glove,  gum-swappin'  business  with  the  men  that's  done  you 
dirt.  D'ye  s'pose,  if  I  was  in  Cameron's  place — with  five 
hundred  acres  of  th'  best  grape-growing  land  in  California, 
and  still  havin'  to  live  on  my  remittance  'cause  those  fellows 
was  pocketing  my  proceeds — that  I'd  invite  'em  to  my  home, 
an'  be  hob-nobbin  with  'em  's'f  they  was  a  distant  relative  that 
was  going  to  leave  me  their  money  when  they  died? 

"I'm  fr'm  Missouri,  an'  that  aint  the  way  we  do  things  back 
there.  There's  just  one  thing  that  marks  off  between  our 
friends  and  our  enemies,  and  that's  grandad's  old  shot-gun." 

Whitten  laughed. 

"Your  sincerity  does  you  credit,  my  friend,  but  you're 
primitive.  Your  kind  of  policy  leaves  too  few  to  share  the 
dividends  with.  Now  it's  a  lot  better  to  do  like  Cameron  and 
the  rest  of  us — make  friends  with  your  enemy.  When  he  beats 
you  at  your  game  you  can  sit  in  with  him  and  help  him  rake  in 
the  cards." 

Following  the  barbecue,  while  the  others  were  enjoying  the 
relaxations  of  the  siesta  hour,  Douglas  deserted  the  company. 
The  enforced  inactivity  of  several  weeks,  occasion  d  by  his 
injury  had  impaired,  somewhat,  his  vigor.  He  was,  by  nature, 
temperamental  in  the  extreme,  and  the  excitements  of  the 
hour,  and  his  own  part  in  it,  had  left  him  exhausted.  He 


30  THE     CLAW 

wanted  to  get  away  from  it — relax,  and  rest  up  for  the  evening, 
the  diversions  of  which  would  tax  the  most  robust.  There 
was  nothing  like  the  river  for  rest  and  indolence. 

His  boat  and  his  horse  were  his  prime  pleasures,  ordinarily. 
Like  all  other  pastimes,  he  shared  them  rarely  with  his  brother. 
The  minds  of  the  two  were  not  compatible,  even  barring  the 
difference  in  age.  Duncan  had  less  leisure  for  pleasure  than 
his  brother.  He  seemed  to  always  find  something  to  do — an 
irritating  quality  to  a  leisure-loving  person  who  enjoys  relaxa 
tion  and  the  pleasures  of  the  mind,  and  is  disturbed  by  the 
show  of  too  much  activity  on  the  part  of  others. 

For  his  pastime,  Douglas  had  a  companion,  however,  of 
utmost  congeniality.  That  was  Ortega.  The  man  was,  him 
self,  a  "character."  His  claims  of  age  and  decrepitude  were 
largely  assumed.  He  was  the  senior  member  of  the  little 
colony  of  vineyard  laborers,  and  therefore  claimed  the  privi 
leges  and  advantages  forthcoming—the  role  f  patriarch.  As 
a  matter  of  fact,  he  was  barely  fifty,  a  man  of  splendid  stature 
and  proportions,  the  best  swimmer  and  wrestler  of  the  country 
round  and  a  horseman  of  fame.  He  was  a  half-breed  and  full 
of  the  lore  of  his  people;  Mexican  history  and  legends,  with 
their  characteristic  embellishments  lent  by  much  telling  by 
imaginative  narrators;  Indian  arts  and  traditions.  He  was  a 
prime  companion,  an  unexcelled  entertainer,  especially  when 
his  natural  eloquence  and  imagination  were  stimulated  to  the 
proper  point  by  the  judicious  infusion  of  "vino." 

For  the  boy,  the  old  man  had  the  devoted  affection,  half  of 
servant,  half  of  father.  Douglas  was  his  much-beloved — his 
ideal.  He  had  a  large  hand  in  his  rearing,  undertaken  at  the 
day  of  their  first  acquaintance,  ten  years  before.  Douglas 
spoke  his  own  tongue  like  one  of  his  sons.  He  was  at  Douglas' 
disposal  at  all  times. 

Today  Douglas  had  special  need  of  him,  his  crippled  arm 


THE    CLAW  31 

fore-stalling  any  work  at  the  oars.  He  was  pretty  certain,  too, 
that  Ortega  had  reached  the  ideal  stage  for  entertainment 
purposes;  in  fact,  it  so  proved  when  Douglas  sought  him, 
sprawled  on  a  bench  in  the  shadow  of  the  carraige  house,  ad 
dressing  himself  in  vivacious  terms  to  the  atmosphere.  Ortega 
had  abstained  for  two  days  now,  in  the  interests  of  his  master's 
feast,  a  mark  of  devotion  greater  than  which  Cameron  could 
not  have  asked.  As  relief  from  his  duties  approached,  he  had 
begun  drinking  deeply  that  no  time  might  be  lost.  He  was 
now  properly  primed  to  afford  just  the  diversion  Douglas 
craved,  to  bring  forth  on  slight  encouragement  all  his  store  of 
quaint  philosophy,  shrewd  wit  and  imaginative  talents;  while 
the  exercise  afforded  by  rowing,  Douglas  argued,  would  keep 
him  from  lapsing  into  premature  desuetude. 

"Oh,  come  on,  Ortega!  I'll  give  you  an  audience  worthy  of 
you.  It's  me  for  the  river.  This  social  whirl  is  too  much,  I 
say,  Ortega,"  as  that  individual  dismounted  from  his  seat  and 
prepared  to  follow  him  with  some  difficulty.  "You  know  that 
was  some  speech  I  made.  Dad,  the  old  coger,  called  me  for  a 
toast  without  saying  a  word  to  me  about  it  beforehand.  Don't 
know  what  he  thought  I'd  do — run,  faint,  or  something.  But 
I  called  his  bluff.  Got  up  and  gave  'em  a  talk  right  off  the  reel 
that  they're  all  buzzing  about.  Funny,  really!  I  didn't  know 
it  was  in  me.  Dad's  awful  proud." 

"What,  you! — a  speech?  You  made  a  speech,  Carambal 
But  you  do  not  surprise  me.  If  you  did  one-half  as  well  as 
you  think,  it  must  have  been  a  great  success,"  agreed  Ortega, 
with  erithusiam.  Douglas  laughed  and  reddened.  One  of  the 
characteristics  of  Ortega's  alcoholic  perorations  wras  his  candor. 

"Well,  say  what  you  like,  but  it  was  a  success."  The  men 
all  said  so;  and  the  ladies — I  received  the  most  dulcet  smiles 
from  them!  Guess  I  must  be  getting  a  man,  as  Dad  said;  but 
Lord!  I'm  tired,  and  this  shoulder  drags  like  a  water-soaked  log, 


32  THE    CLAW 

from  this  wretched  cast.  Ortega,  you  may  have  the  pleasure 
of  doing  all  the  rowing  today.  Pull  the  boat  up  nearer" — they 
were  at  the  little  landing — " there." 

He  climbed  in  and  took  a  seat  in  the  end;  Ortega,  with  some 
difficulty,  followed.  He  slipped  the  rope,  pushed  the  little 
craft  from  the  landing  side  and  took  up  the  oars.  Douglas 
leaned  back  in  lazy  contentment. 

"Lord-ee!  Ain't  this  a  great  day!  Great  day  to  row.  If  I 
didn't  have  this  game  arm,  I'd  take  those  oars  and  row  to  the 
forks  and  back,  and  you,  Ortega,  could  resign  yourself  to  the 
arms  of  Morpheus  toward  whom  I  can  see  you  are  already 
yearning." 

It  was  a  great  day — one  of  the  valley's  perfect  days.  The 
sky  was  unbelievably  blue — the  blue  that  follows  a  spring  rain. 
Leaf  and  blade  scintillated  in  the  high  noon-day  sun.  The  hills 
across  the  river  were  aflame  with  poppies.  Nearer,  on  the 
little  flat  along  which  he  road  ran,  the  orange  and  green  was 
blotched  with  the  vivid  hue  of  the  purple  lupin,  a  combination 
so  daring  that  a  timid  artist  would  dilute  his  colors.  In  the 
little  draws  the  sunshine  of  the  wild  mustard  lay,  and  a  hundred 
other  flowers  of  lesser  showiness  contributed  to  the  brilliant 
landscape.  The  river  was  flushed  with  the  spring  freshets,  fed 
by  the  melting  mountain  snows.  It  lay  full  and  deep  from 
bank  to  bank,  languorous  and  dark  beneath  the  overhanging 
cottonwood  and  willow  trees;  in  the  center  the  current  swept 
sw  ft  and  shimmering  like  a  steel  ribbon  over  unseen  wheels. 
There  was  no  wind,  and  sounds  carried  far  on  the  quiet  air: 
the  mocking  bird  and  meadow-lark  in  competition  of  spring 
praise  over  head;  the  far-off  bleat  of  Donohue's  sheep;  Camp 
bell's  man  half  a  mile  away,  shouting  to  his  team;  the  sound 
of  the  mandolins;  and  now  and  then  the  high,  far-carrying 
voice  of  women's  laughter.  All  these  reached  the  river,  but 


THE    CLAW  33 

were  softened  into  a  dreamy  medley  that  enhanced  the  isola 
tion  of  the  two  men. 

Ortega,  with  a  brave  effort,  swung  the  boat  well  out  toward 
the  cental'  and  on  its  way,  then  drooped  listlessly  over  the 
oars,  his  eyes  drowsing  on  space. 

"Come!"  cried  Douglas,  "Wake  up!  What  did  I  bring  you 
out  here  for,  but  for  the  benefit  of  your  muscle  and  your  lin 
guistic  powers?  I  see  where  I'm  left  both  ways,  and  will  be 
hauling  in  with  one  hand  a  dead-to-the-world  Mexican  in  half 
an  hour.  I  say,  Ortega,  come  out  of  it!  Look  to  your  oars 
and  talk." 

Ortega  blinked  at  the  boy  confusedly  and  endeavored  to 
rouse  himself  from  growing  lethargy.  He  held  the  oars  aslant 
and  let  the  current  carry  them,  while  he  essayed  to  rally  his 
mental  powers. 

"You  know,"  continued  Douglas,  in  bombastic  style  and 
mock  reproof,  "it's  really  a  disgrace,  this.  You  ought  to  drop 
it  out — the  booze.  There's  no  opprobrium  attached  to  stimu 
lating  your  natural  eloquence  with  a  little  vino,  but  to  drink 
yourself  into  unsociability  and  oblivion  is  stupid.  My  father 
has  no  use  for  such  asininity.  He  says  it's  bad  form,  and  h? 
can  forgive  anything  but  that.  My  father  hasn't  any  use  foi 
a  man  that  has  so  little  brains  as  to  get  drunk.  If  any  man 
makes  an  ass  of  himself  today — you'll  see — he  won't  get  an 
invitation  next  year." 

Douglas  had  accomplished  his  object  and  prodded  Ortega 
back  to  life  and  combat  iveness.  The  latter  roused  and  waved 
a  preliminary  hand. 

"Basianie,  muchacho  mio — enough,  my  boy!  You  are  but 
a  prattling  infant.  Ortega  will  correct  at  the  same  time  your 
ignorance  and  your  manners.  You  assert  that  the  drinking  of 
much  wine  is  foolishness,  and  you  have  the  temerity  to  upbraid 


34  THE    CLAW 

your  senior — you,  who  know  not  a  man's  thirst,  being  but  a 
few  years  removed  from  your  mother's  nipple. 

"To  drink,  my  son,  to  drink — much — ah — mucbissimo,  that 
is  not  foolishness.  For  to  drink  mucho — muy  mucho — is  to 
encourage  the  industry,  and  to  encourage  the  industry  (can 
you  follow  my  logic,  oh  little  one? )  is  to  increase  the  vineyard 
acreage  into  a  vast  and  glorious  commonwealth,  which  is  a 
thing  greatly  to  be  desired.  Heard  I  not  your  father  say  so 
today  in  his  great  oration?"  Douglas  was  much  diverted. 
He  laughed  uproariously  at  the  spectacle  of  Ortega's  earnestness 
and  prodded  him  farther. 

"But  you,  Ortega,  your  sprees  don't  help  my  father's  industry. 
You  guzzle  quarts  on  the  house." 

Ortega  regarded  his  young  master  with  a  grieved  expression. 
He  removed  his  sombrero  and  passed  his  hand  thoughtfully 
over  his  forehead,  then  his  face  cleared  and  he  beamed  on 
Douglas  with  condescendsion. 

"That,  my  son,  is  a  remark  that  does  but  show  your  ob- 
tuseness.  Ortega  drinks.  He  drinks  much,  by  the  generosity 
of  Senor  Cameron,  that  is  true — that  is  certainly  true.  Madre 
de  Dios,  that  is  very  true!  But,  my  son,  does  he  not  go  to 
town  every  month-end,  on  the  evening  of  pay-day,  and  expend 
a  large  portion  of  his  earnings?  Maria  Madrel  a  very  large 
portion!"  added  Ortega,  in  regretful  reminiscence,  "over  Mister 
O'Hooligan's  bar?  So  does  he  stimulate  the  retail  business." 

Douglas  roared  with  mirth.  He  thought  how  he  would 
regale  his  guests  tonight  with  Ortega's  logic.  Ortega,  for  the 
time,  had  banished  Morpheus  and  invoked  Mars.  He  let  the 
oars  swing  in  their  sockets  while  his  hands  abbetted  his  elo 
quence.  He  repeated  his  arguments  in  revised  terms,  em 
phasizing  his  convictions  with  a  vigorous  fist.  He  implored 
Douglas  by  all  his  saints  to  deny  that  his  reasoning  was  sound. 
He  started  to  his  feet  to  defy  an  answer. 


THE    CLAW  35 

"Sit  down!  Sit  down!  You  fool!"  shouted  Douglas,  in  throes  of 
mirth.  "Don't  you  know  you'll  tip  this  boat  over  and  I  can 
swim  about  like  a  rock  with  this  cast  on?" 

Ortega  responded  unexpectedly.  The  postponed  lethargy 
claimed  him  and  he  sank  down  abruptly  and  heavily,  his  body 
sagging  over  the  water.  Douglas  started  forward — the  boat 
dipped.  It  careened  to  one  side  and  over.  Ortega,  on  the 
edge,  slipped  gently  into  the  water,  but  the  craft  caught  the 
boy  beneath  it  and  swung  out  into  the  swift  current. 

When  Ortega  rose  to  the  surface  he  was  sober,  and  the  sig 
nificance  of  the  catastrophe  flashed  instantly  into  his  mind. 
He  struck  out  to  the  boy's  rescue,  the  recollection  of  Douglas' 
handicap  inspiring  desperate  strength.  The  lad  was  not  in 
sight.  The  overturned  boat  suggested  the  worst.  It  was 
already  several  rods  away  and  moving  rapidly. 

Ortega  pursued  frantically  and  vainly  till  a  deep  eddy 
caught  and  whirled  it,  and  on  the  rise  the  boy's  body  emerged 
from  beneath,  struggling  faintly.  The  current,  circling,  flung 
it  toward  Ortega;  he  seized  it  in  a  frantic  grasp.  The  eddy 
sucked  at  them  both,  whirled  them  twice  around  and  flung 
them  shoreward.  Ortega,  with  super-human  strength,  wrenched 
himself  and  his  burden  from  the  grip  of  the  current  and  struck 
out  into  shallow  water. 

He  bore  it  to  the  shore  and  fell  upon  it  with  all  the  frantic 
measures  of  resuscitation  his  experience  knew,  all  the  while 
shouting  for  help,  praying,  calling  the  boy's  name,  imploring  all 
the  saints  he  knew  to  bring  the  loved  spirit  back. 

They  met  him  at  last  when  he  had  struggled  half  way  up  the 
plowed  vineyard,  the  body  of  young  Douglas  in  his  arms.  He 
gave  it  into  someone's  hands  and  fled  back  to  the  river.  He 
stopped  on  the  spot,  all  wet,  where  the  body  of  the  boy  had 
lain.  He  lifted  his  face  to  the  sky — unbelievably  blue — his 
eyes  staring,  his  hands  outstretched  and  clenched,  the  water 


36  THE     CLAW 

dripping  from  his  wet  clothe  .  "Oh,  Diosl  Oh,  Dtos!"  he 
repeated  in  agony. 

He  dropped  to  his  knees,  grovelling,  his  head  wrung  in  his 
arms.  He  strained  forward  and  took  the  imagined  dead  face 
in  his  hands,  gazing  on  it  despairingly. 

"Oh,  mi  muchachol"  he  sobbed.  "Estas  muertol  Estas 
muerto  y  yo  ten  go  la  culpal"  He  flung  himself  to  his  feet  with 
a  great  cry  and  ran  to  the  water's  edge.  Something  keen  from 
his  blouse  found  his  throat,  and  he  fell  forward  into  the  water 
where  the  current  swept  close  to  the  bank.  Up  at  the  house 
the  last  merry-making  of  La  Mesa  Vineyard  was  at  an  end. 


CHAPTER    II. 

The  loss  of  a  child  includes  for  the  parent  two  privations: 
the  parental  and  the  personal.  The  one  involves  the  affections 
—that  tenderness  and  devotion  that  offspring  calls  forth  and 
that  the  growing  personality  of  the  child  enhances;  the  other 
the  expectancy  provided  by  the  unfolding  life,  the  possibility 
of  the  child  as  an  embodiment  of  the  dearest  ideals  of  the 
parent:  the  defeated  purposes,  the  handicapped  attainment, 
the  incomplete  accomplishments  of  one  life  finding  fulfillment 
and  completion  in  another— a  second  and  complete  self.  In 
degree  as  there  is  family  pride  and  ambition  the  latter  be 
reavement  is  felt  a  large,  if  indeterminable  factor  of  the  grief  as 
suffered  by  Cameron  in  the  loss  of  his  son. 

Douglas  had  been  to  him  at  once  his  dearest  possession  and 
his  most  promising.  It  had  been  his  rarest  diversion,  the 
development  of  the  boy's  quick  mind  along  the  lines  of  study 
most  gratifying  to  himself,  and  his  greatest  happiness,  the 
companionship  of  the  lad  whose  tastes  and  instincts  were  a 
transcript  of  his  own.  The  boy's  companionship  was,  in  fact, 
the  only  real  one  his  family  supplied.  It  constituted  in  part 
that  sympathy  and  fellowship  that  would  have  been  provided 
by  a  more  compatible  marriage.  It  was  in  the  nature  o"  things 
that  his  affection  and  self  centered  pride  should  have  been 
lavished  on  the  son  of  his  own  likeness,  to  the  neglect  of  the 
son  who  was  the  counterpart  of  his  mother.  But  Douglas  had 
afforded  another  and  wholesome  element;  namely,  the  first  and 
only  resistance  the  domineering  self  willed  man  had  known  in 
his  family.  Between  the  two  was  understanding  and  affection 
of  a  rare  nature,  but  the  very  likeness  of  the  boy  in  his  personal 
traits  to  his  father,  provided  for  resistance.  It  was  an  ex 
hilarating  experience  to  meet  with  spirit  in  his  son;  his  respect 


38  THE     CLAW 

and  affection  for  the  boy  were  increased  thereby.  Douglas' 
imperiousness,  his  evidence  of  high  temper,  and  self  will,  even 
the  occasional  differences  between  father  and  son,  when  the 
latter  resisted  not  infrequently  with  success  his  father's  will, 
were  occasions  of  secret  gratification  to  the  man. 

That  Douglas  should  have  been  cut  off  at  a  time — an  hour — 
when  the  powers  of  his  dawning  manhood  were  brilliantly 
evident  to  all,  was  one  of  those  circumstances  that  seem  to 
mark  the  fate  with  a  peculiar  genius  of  irony  and  choice. 

The  tragedy,  blighting  in  its  significence  and  suddenness, 
plunged  Cameron  into  an  abyss  such  as  is  experienced  only  by 
one  of  his  temperament  and  intellectual  type,  one  in  which 
ravished  love,  denied  ambition,  the  frustration  of  the  most 
cherished  purposes  of  a  self  willed  man,  struggled  impotently 
and  despairingly  in  intellectual  travail  with  the  mute  and  un 
answerable  Power. 

It  was  characteristic  that  in  the  exigencies  of  Cameron's 
grief,  and  the  violence  of  the  sickness,  mental  and  physical, 
which  attended  it  for  many  months,  the  paler  grief  of  the 
mother  and  son  should  have  been  overshadowed,  submerged, 
as  all  things  personal  with  them,  in  concern  for  the  father. 

Through  sleepless  nights  and  watchful  days  the  silent  woman 
and  undemonstrative  boy  served  in  their  partnership  of  service. 
In  their  dumb  sorrow  was  a  deeper  pathos  than  that  of  the 
rebellious  man :  a  subtle  reproach — the  realization  of  how  in 
adequate  was  their  devotion  to  compensate  in  the  slightest 
degree  for  the  loss  of  this  son ;  how  far  short  they  fell  of  taking 
the  smallest  place  in  the  room  of  his  affections  left  vacant  and 
deserted  by  the  vanished  boy. 

It  was  a  grief  not  to  be  imparted  or  shared  even  by  each 
other;  one  to  be  worn,  like  some  sad  scar,  unguessed  by  others, 
the  dull  pain  of  which  is  forgotten  only  in  activity  and  self- 
forge  tfulness. 


THE    CLAW  39 

There  was  ample  opportunity  for  this  in  other  than  im 
mediate  service  to  the  sick  man.  The  affairs  of  the  place  were 
going  badly.  Cameron's  sickness  stretched  out  for  many 
months  and  was  followed  by  a  chronic  invalidism  marked  by 
still  greater  inattention  to  the  practical,  still  looser  modes  of 
business,  less  capacity  for  execution  in  any  line  of  work  than  had 
characterized  him  before.  His  erraticism  increased,  combined 
with  an  irritability  new  to  him.  His  grief,  surface  healed,  be 
neath,  changed  gradually  the  tissues  of  his  temperament.  His 
sunniness  was  overcast,  his  optimism,  provided  by  the  cir 
cumstances  of  a  philosophical  mind,  healthy  animal  spirits  and 
environment  inimicable  to  hopefulness,  was  shattered  by  the 
tragedy.  Life,  which  once  turned  toward  him  an  aspect 
beneficent  and  inviting,  now  appeared  hideous  and  inexplicable. 
Beneath  every  day  intercourse  and  affairs  his  restless  and 
quickened  mind  wrestled  to  exhaustion  with  the  Problem. 

Behind  all  the  ordinary  transactions  of  the  day  which  he 
gradually  resumed  was  the  vivid  want  of  the  companionship 
of  his  son.  For  both  his  intellectual  travail  and  his  grief- 
there  was  only  one  surcease — oblivion,  but  sleep  evaded  him 
all  too  often.  In  his  extremity,  La  Mesa  Vineyard,  the  enter 
prise  which  together  with  other  personal  interests  had  lost 
meaning  and  significance  at  least  yielded  him  the  service  of 
provisional  relief. 

Cameron,  who  had  dreamed,  in  a  day  which  seemed  now  to 
have  had  no  existence,  of  her  rich  fruit  as  a  multiplier  of  human 
contentment,  now  drank  increasingly  of  her  vintage  to  dull  the 
pangs  of  a  never-laid  sorrow  and  the  ceaseless  turnings  of  his 
weary  mind  on  the  relentless  wheel  of  the  eternal,  "Why?" 

Young  Douglas  slept  under  a  noble  stone  on  the  high  slope  of 
the  vineyard.  His  resting  place  swept  in  its  view  the  whole 
valley.  It  was  like  the  boy's  life  had  been,  thought  Cameron, 
large  and  free.  Ortega's  recovered  body  was  laid  close  by.  It 


40  THE    CLAW 

seemed  appropriate  to  Cameron  that  the  faithfulness  of  the 
half-breed  should  be  rewarded  thus.  It  was  a  strange  cir 
cumstance  that  the  voluntary  expiation  which  the  frenzied 
man  had  made  for  his  inadvertant  crime  was  in  the  eyes  of  his 
young  master's  family  interpreted  in  terms  wholly  of  devotion. 
Ortega  was  not  only  the  would-be  rescuer  of  the  boy,  who, 
seeing  his  plight  from  the  banks  had  plunged  into  the  river  to 
his  rescue,  but  his  heroism  was  of  a  higher  sort  and  one  com 
patible  with  his  hot  mingled  blood.  It  was  an  incident  re 
markable,  unrecorded  before.  Its  devotion  lent  new  luster 
to  the  boy's  ingratiating  qualities  and  exalted  Ortega's  own 
humble  role  as  friend  and  servant.  The  incident  held  an  im 
pressive  place  in  the  tragic  episode,  as  recorded  in  the  family's 
history,  but  its  real  significance,  such  as  the  strange  ruling  of 
fate,  was  never  to  be  known,  possessed  only  by  the  quiet  sleep 
ers  on  the  hill. 


CHAPTER   III. 

No  one  ever  served  a  cause  with  a  heavier  handicap  than  did 
Jeanie  and  her  boy,  the  family  enterprise.  It  was  in  the  nature 
both  of  his  Scotch  ancestry  and  his  own  person?,  ity  that 
Cameron,  however  unfitted  for  the  respon  ib  lity,  should 
administer  his  business  affairs  wholly  himself,  excluding  his 
wife  and  son  both  from  his  confidence  and  from  the  knowledge 
of  anything  but  the  active  details  of  the  industry.  It  was  also 
in  the  nature  of  things  that  these  transactions  should  have  been 
unquestioned  by  them.  Cameron  combined  with  a  nature, 
erratic  and  impractical,  that  frequent  supplement,  a  dominating 
personality,  which  over-rules  opposition  and  wrests  confidence 
by  the  force  of  it's  own  certaint}^. 

In  the  presence  of  his  wife  and  youngest  son,  his  victory  had 
been  an  eas  one  His  domination  was  complete — and  dis 
astrous.  To  Jeanie  it  was  accustomed,  the  experience  of  a  life 
time  beginning  with  the  masculine  domination  of  her  father's 
family.  It  was  natural  that  she  should  have  no  part  in  her 
husband's  life  other  than  to  serve  him  and  his  children  with 
the  work  of  her  two  hands. 

For  Duncan  the  policy  of  his  father  was  peculiarly  un 
fortunate.  He  already  had  too  much  of  his  mother's  self 
repression  and  deprecation.  At  twelve  he  toiled  at  man's 
work  with  men  on  the  vineyard,  but  he  worked  mainly  with 
brawn  and  muscle.  His  mind  was  enthralled,  and  dependent; 
his  powers  of  thought  repressed  by  the  domination  of  his 
father's  compelling  mind,  when  they  should  have  been  advanc 
ing  in  pace  with  his  physical  development.  His  mental  world 
was  restricted  to  the  field  of  his  father's  opinions,  and  his 
father's  prejudices  were  impressed  upon  his  young  mind  with 
the  ineffaccableness  that  a  mature  personality  may  effect  on  a 


42  THE    CLAW 

young  and  impressionable  child  who  is  prepar  d  by  affection 
and  devotion  to  receive  those  impressions.  For  Duncan 
worshipped  his  father  with  a  passion  that  admitted  no  variance 
or  question  of  his  will. 

With  Douglas  it  would  have  been  different.  Douglas  would 
have  permitted  no  intellectual  domination  where  his  own 
curiosity  or  impulses  led,  but  the  misfortune  worked  him  by 
his  father's  policy  were  already  evident  before  his  death,  in  his 
natural  indolence,  emphasized  by  the  lack  of  responsibility,  and 
his  readiness  to  shirk  taxing  activities.  In  later  life  Douglas 
would  have  wrested  his  share  of  power  and  domination  and 
reserved  the  privilege  of  ease  and  luxury  in  which  he  was 
trained.  It  was  not  impossible  that  the  father's  mistaken 
regime  would  have  worked  for  Douglas — tempermental  self- 
indulgent,  imaginative — even  greater  misfortune  than  that  for 
the  younger  boy. 

The  immediate  and  practical  result  of  Cameron's  mistaken 
regime  was  to  effect  a  peculiar  situation:  Jeanie  and  Duncan 
toiled  incessantly.  Jeanie,  indoors,  bent  all  her  energy  and 
native  thrift  on  the  things  of  the  household,  and  those  supple 
mentary  activities,  the  poultry,  the  garden  and  the  dairy — that 
supplemented  the  family  resources.  Duncan,  keen  to  every 
practica'  detail  of  the  ranch,  served  where  a  hand  was  most 
needed,  substituted  unobtrusively  but  efficiently  his  own 
authority  when  authority  fell  from  the  lax  hands  of  his  father 
and  the  enterprise  dragged  for  want  of  direction.  He  was 
a  host  in  his  young  strength,  his  foresight,  his  ability  to  get  on 
with  the  men.  Both  worked  at  the  top  of  their  strength  \vith 
the  wonderful  energy  and  self  denial  which  is  not  to  be  found 
outside  the  Scotch  breed.  But  it  was  a  work  in  the  dark,  and 
one  robbed  of  its  rewards,  for,  to  the  splendid  efficiency  of  the 
workers  was  combined  the  imposed  ignorance  of  the  business 
end  of  the  family  enterprises.  The  financial  administration 


THE    CLAW  43 

still  rested  with  Cameron,  who,  increasingly  unfit,  yet,  with  the 
knowledge  of  his  failing  power  and  the  stubborness  of  his  old 
domineering  way,  still  presisted  in  monoplizing  his  former 
authority. 

It  is  the  tragedy  of  some  lives  that  even  their  virtues  an 
tagonize  those  whose  love  they  most  crave.  Cameron  at  all 
times  somewhat  deprecative  of  practical  gifts,  in  the  irritation 
induced  by  his  ingrowing  sorrow  and  the  aggravation  contri 
buted  by  increasing  use  of  stimulants,  found  less  and  less  plea 
sure  in  his  wrife  and  son.  Possibly,  too,  his  knowledge  that 
their  industry  covered  much  of  his  lack  contributed  to  his 
impatience.  There  are  certain  mental  conditions  that  cause 
dislocation  of  the  reasoning  process.  These  conditions,  com 
pounded  of  disappointments,  frustrations  and  physical  weakness 
frequently  induce  in  the  sanest  and  most  charitable  of  minds, 
sad  changes  that  misjudge  motives,  assigning  attentions  of 
hurt  to  those  who  are  serving  them  most  faithfully. 

Cameron  had  reached  that  state.  The  two  watched  his 
transformation  with  a  distress  they  did  not  impart  to  each 
other.  This  new  burden,  like  all  others,  Jeanie  took  up  and 
carried  uncomplainingly.  The  thoughts  of  the  boy,  none 
knew.  The  child  born  with  the  physical  defect,  accepts  the 
affliction  with  philosophy.  Duncan  from  the  first  had  knowii 
a  lack  in  his  father's  love  but  he  had  accepted  it  without 
question.  It  seemed  entirely  natural  that  Douglas,  who 
dominated  his  own  childish  mind  with  his  ingratiating  charms, 
should  receive  more  from  his  father,  and  from  all,  than  himself. 

When  elements  of  strength  in  one  are  shattered,  it  is  some 
times  the  lesser  and  inferior  things  of  one's  nature  that  rally  the 
prostrated  and  disordered  powers.  Cameron's  natural  vanity 
emerged  from  the  wreck  of  his  expectations,  and  prompted  the 
raising  of  some  new  objects  of  ambition.  With  less  ability 
than  ever  to  man  a  large  project,  his  mind  turned  over  more 


44  THE     CLAW 

with  a  new  tenacity  to  the  establishment  of  a  family  monu 
ment  comprised  by  the  large  holdings  of  La  Mesa  Vineyard. 
Simultaneously  his  long  deferred  interest  turned  toward  Duncan 
with  ambitions  to  make  of  the  son  that  remained  to  him  a  man 
worthy  of  his  name. 

Duncan's  schooling  had  been  followed  precariously.  He  had 
missed  an  entire  term  and  known  many  broken  ones.  Cameron 
thought  with  a  start  of  reproach  of  the  neglect  the  boy  had 
suffered.  It  occured  to  him  suddenly  that  Duncan,  who 
already  stood  five  feet  seven  in  his  stocking  feet  and  was  the 
strongest  man  on  the  place  knew  not  a  line  of  Latin  and  had 
never  heard  of  Goethe. 

Duncan  was  put  into  school.  He  finished  the  grammar 
school  and  the  high  school.  He  did  not  distinguish  himself 
particularly  in  either.  His  habits  of  study  had  been  broken 
up;  he  had  worked  too  much  for  his  age.  His  mind  was  slow 
and  thinking,  the  kind  required  by  the  books,  came  hard. 
His  mind  and  heart  were  at  the  vineyard.  He  was  needed 
there.  While  he  was  trying  to  determine  the  value  of  "x", 
he  was  wondering  if  Morton,  the  new  foreman  Cameron  had 
installed  in  his  place,  had  remembered  to  hire  the  extra  gang  for 
the  week's  picking. 

These  digressions  did  not  assist  concentration  but  he  did  his 
best.  He  prodded  his  reluctant  mind  to  the  task  in  hand.  He 
studied  whea  his  hand  itched  to  grip  the  plow  handle  and  his 
mind  was  distracted  with  the  problem  of  Morton's  next  month's 
salary.  He  fought  shyness,  chagrin  and  the  sense  of  his  own 
backwardness.  He  made  a  creditable,  if  not  brilliant  record 
for  himself  in  English,  for  which  he  had  little  taste  and  the 
languages  which  he  despised.  He  suffered  with  the  martyrs  on 
oratorical  days  because  public  speaking  was  a  part  of  a  gentle 
man's  training;  he  died  figurative  deaths  in  the  parlors  of  the 
country  side  in  pursuit  of  the  graces  that  belong  to  a  gentleman. 


THE    CLAW  45 

The  sweat  of  his  social  efforts  soaked  his  comfortless  linen  more 
than  toil  on  his  knees  down  the  vineyard  rows  under  scorching; 
sun.  It  was  an  heroic  task  admixed  with  tragedy  and  a  grim 
humor:  Duncan,  revising  nature  in  his  substitution  for  Douglas, 
Duncan,  his  normal  gifts  of  service  to  his  family  rejected, 
throwing  into  the  hopeless  cause  all  the  grim  and  unrelenting 
purpose  of  a  successful  issue. 

He  finished  the  high  school  in  the  nearby  town.  His  father's 
purpose  for  him  meant  the  State  University  for  three  years  and 
a  year  at  one  of  the  eastern  institutions,  not  that  Cameron 
could  afford  it.  His  fortunes  were  steadily  declining.  A  fire 
that  destroyed  half  of  the  business  section  of  the  new  town, 
wiped  out  his  rental  property  and  his  raisin  candy  plant.  His 
newspaper  enterprise  had  failed  from  lack  of  attention  and  want 
of  business  ability  behind  it.  He  had  reserved  a  few  shares  of 
stock  in  the  company  that  bought  out  the  establishment  but 
the  paper  was  seeing  hard  sledding  with  a  new  and  pushing  con 
temporary  in  the  field. 

But  the  first,  the  vineyard,  had  failed  to  pay  out.  Cameron 
had  bought  too  much  acreage.  He  had  insisted  on  getting  it  all 
under  cultivation  at  once.  The  cost  had  been  enormous  and 
used  up  all  his  funds.  Also,  the  Missourian's  prophecy  came 
true.  The  new  co-operative  associations  f  rmed  to  break 
into  the  business  of  the  wine  trust,  and  wrest  for  the  producer 
his  just  p  ofits  had  only  succeeded  in  making  matters  worse  and 
precipitating  a  throat  cutting  re  ime  before  unknown  in  the 
annals  of  the  industry. 

For  a  time,  to  be  sure  the  game  was  evenly  played.  The  new 
association  by  putting  into  the  business  their  own  grapes  as 
well  as  those  of  their  neighbors,  were  able  to  manufacture  their 
goods  and  undersell  the  trust  at  a  profit  in  its  own  market. 
But  this  state  of  affairs  could  not  last  for  long.  The  California 
Association  quickly  rallied  to  the  emergency  and  under-cut 


46  THE    CLAW 

the  co-operatives.  The  co-operatives  put  their  goods  down 
still  lower.  And  so  the  game  went.  There  were  seasons  when 
California  port  wine  retailing  normally  at  from  $1.20  to  $3.00 
a  gallon,  according  to  proof,  dropped  to  sixteen  cents  a  gallon 
and  when  wine  grapes  which  at  top  price  had  sold  at  the  wineries 
for  $25 . 00  a  ton  went  down  to  $4 . 00. 

The  co-operatives  were  game.  There  were  years  in  succession 
when  they  threw  their  own  grapes  into  the  business  and  took 
out  nothing  for  them  in  a  splendid  gamble  on  a  chance  that  had 
no  possibility  of  winning  from  the  very  nature  of  it.  For  it 
meant  a  loose  body  of  men,  not  all  of  whom  were  experienced  in 
the  grim  fighting  mode  of  commercial  warfare  and  who,  at  all 
times,  were  handicapped  by  insufficient  financial  backing,  pitted 
against  an  organization  that  possessed  all  the  resources  of  the 
commercial  victor,  capital,  prestige  and  the  political  power 
which  those  possessions  are  able  to  wield. 

In  digust  the  growers  by  the  hundred,  budded  over  their 
vines  to  raisin  or  table  grapes  or  pulled  them  up  and  planted 
their  land  to  fruit  orchards,  the  soil  being  of  the  best  for  either 
purpose.  Even  oranges  in  large  areas  began  to  grow  along  the 
river  and  foothills.  For  all  such  produce  there  was  generous 
demand  and  excellent  profits.  Others  sold  out  and  went  into 
the  end  of  the  business  illustrated  by  the  California  Wine 
Association  as  the  really  paying  one — that  of  the  wholesale  or 
retail  liquor  dealer.  There  were  few  whose  original  ambitions 
toward  the  industry  incited  them  to  persist  in  a  business  in 
which  the  proceeds  consisted  mainly  of  next  season's  expect 
ations,  but  Cameron  was  one  of  these. 

It  was  from  his  old  neighbors  who  had  partially  or  wholly 
deserted  the  ranks  of  the  producer  for  those  of  the  manufacturer 
or  wholesale  business,  that  Cameron  borrowed  to  keep  his 
enterprise  afloat.  They  had  money  to  loan.  They  were 
generous  in  their  terms.  It  was  to  their  interest  that  the 


THE    CLAW  47 

great  wine  producing  acreage  should  be  kept.  Each  dis 
appointing  year  they  extended  the  time  of  payments  or  re 
newed  old  mortgages  with  hearty  assurance  of  their  pleasure  in 
being  able  to  serve  a  friend  and  condolences  upon  conditions 
that  proved  inimical  to  his  business.  Their  sympathy  and 
encouragement  restored  his  confidence  and  renewed  his  per 
sistence  in  the  industry  after  each  disastrous  year.  More 
than  anything  else  they  stood  for  the  invokers  of  the  former 
times — of  Cameron's  old,  admirable  self,  from  which  he  was 
parting  in  a  transformation  rapid  and  menacing.  Their  hours 
of  intercourse  with  him  restored  the  old  days  with  their  charm, 
their  promise,  their  light  heartedness,  in  the  glamour  of  which 
lurked  the  spirit  of  the  lost  and  idealized  boy. 


CHAPTER  FOUR 

Duncan  went  to  college.  He  went  as  he  had  gone  to  school, 
every  desire  in  him  pulling  toward  home.  He  was  needed 
there — how  much,  not  even  Jeanie  knew.  The  last  picture  of 
his  home  invisioned  by  his  memory  emphasized  that  need  with  a 
vividness  that  he  carried  through  all  after  years  with  pain: 
the  veranda  bearing  its  need  of  paint  and  repairs  to  the  morning 
sun;  Jeanie,  the  flush  of  weariness  in  her  cheeks  at  nine,  hurrying 
from  the  back  of  the  house  to  the  farewell;  his  father  after  one 
of  his  sleepless  nights,  physical  and  mental  rack  showing  in  his 
white  face,  his  haggard  eyes,  and  the  unwonted  excitement 
provided  by  the  departure. 

The  Scotch  say  little  at  their  farewells.  Duncan  kissed  his 
mother  and  his  father  gave  him  his  hand — a  hand  of  trans 
parency,  in  which  was  expressed  all  the  refinement  the  inward 
delicacy  of  the  man,  the  things  that  furnished  both  his 
weakness  and  his  charm.  Its  delicacy  as  he  took  it  in  his  own 
strong  one,  effected  Duncan  as  nothing  else  would  have  done : 

"Father!"  he  cried,  "I  can't  go.  You  need  me— let  me 
stay!" 

The  answer  was  undeserved,  it  was  the  word  of  a  sick  man 
in  hard  straights  to  keep  himself  in  hand,  and  Duncan 
forgave  him  at  the  gate: 

"My  God,  boy,  have  y'  no  spirit — your  brother  would  have 
done  better." 

Duncan's  first  college  year  was  broken  by  his  father's  death. 
The  doctor  called  it  heart  trouble.  The  boy  received  the 
telegram,  telling  of  Cameron's  low  state,  in  lecture  and  left  on 
the  moment.  He  did  not  wait  to  gj  to  his  room  but  had  a 
check  cashed  in  the  business  office  and  dashed  across  the 


THE    CLAW  49 

campus,  catching  the  train  at  the  next  street,  just  as  it  was 
leaving. 

At  home  they  had  not  expected  him  on  the  first  train  and 
there  was  no  one  at  the  station  to  meet  him.  It  was  night. 
He  rushed  to  the  nearest  livery  stable  and  beat  on  the  doors. 
He  pushed  by  the  stupid,  blinking  man  that  answered,  found 
and  saddled  a  riding  horse  and,  flnging  the  price  to  the  aston 
ished  man  dashed  out  into  the  darkness. 

The  horse  was  dripping  lather  when  he  flung  himself  from  the 
saddle  at  the  dimly  lighted  entrance  of  his  home.  He  threw  the 
reins  over  the  porch  post  and  dashed  up  the  steps.  There  was 
no  light  in  the  hall  below,  nor  sign  of  activity  and  Duncan,  with 
despairing  heart  divined  that  all  the  life  and  light  of  the  place 
was  centered  tonight,  as  always,  with  his  father,  in  the  room 
where  he  lay.  His  trembling  legs  carried  him  up  the  s  airs  that 
seemed  endless.  At  the  top  he  turned  to  his  father's  room 
where  the  light  made  a  path  down  the  long  hall  for  his  stumbling 
feet.  He  was  panting  as  though  he  had  run,  rather  than 
ridden  the  last  miles;  he  reached  the  door. 

The  room  was  full  of  people — his  mother,  Morton  and  his 
wife,  the  help.  Beyond  was  the  bed  and  before  it  the  doctor 
rose  from  bending  over  the  form  upon  it. 

"It  is  all  over!"  he  said,  and  reached  for  his  hat.  At  the 
door  he  stumbled  over  Duncan.  The  boy  had  fainted  across 
the  threshold. 


CHAPTER  FIVE 

Duncan  strode  across  the  station  platform  to  the  familiar 
machine  in  waiting.  He  shook  hands  with  the  boy,  grinning 
amiable  welcome  at  the  wheel,  and  thrust  his  suitcase  into  the 
back  of  the  car.  He  went  back  to  the  baggage  room  and 
helped  the  men  carry  his  light  trunk  to  the  automobile.  Then 
he  climbed  into  the  seat  behind  the  wheel,  involuntarily  vacated 
by  the  boy,  and  started  the  machine. 

Duncan  was  back  from  college.  He  came  not  with  blare  of 
trumpets ;  neither  with  the  ordinary  air  and  trappings  which 
proclaim  the  newly  fledged.  Duncan  was  not,  in  fact,  a  college 
man.  He  was  a  man  who  had  been  to  college.  He  was  twenty- 
six  years  old.  He  had  not  taken  college  jocularly.  He  had 
taken  it  on  the  installment  plan.  It  had  taken  him  six  years 
to  do  it.  Duncan  was  glad  to  get  through.  He  had  gone 
to  college  for  the  sole  purpose  of  doing  what  he  was  doing  at 
the  present  moment:  getting  hold  of  the  wheel  again — the 
wheel  of  his  family  industry. 

He  had  had  a  longer  go  at  the  last  part  of  his  college  course 
than  at  the  first.  He  had  finished  his  junior  year  at  the  State 
University  and  gone  from  there  to  Yale  the  following  term 
without  the  break  that  had  occurred  between  his  freshman 
and  his  sophomore,  and  his  sophomore  and  junior  years.  He 
had  cut  the  last  summer  short,  too,  leaving  early  for  the  east 
in  the  interests  of  the  wine  men,  to  put  in  some  work  at  Wash 
ington  with  others  from  his  home  state  in  an  effort  to  block  the 
Pomerene  bill,  the  measure  aimed  at  the  very  life  of  the  Cali 
fornia  wine  industry.  It  had  been  a  great  experience,  rubbing 
elbows  with  the  biggest  men  of  the  country;  pitting  his  untried 
powers  of  logic  and  persuasion  against  the  minds  of  experienced 
politicians  and  legislators  from  all  over  the  land.  Best  of  all, 


THE     CLAW  51 

it  had  been  a  work  that  won.  But  it  was  time  he  could  little 
afford  to  spare.  He  was  especially  anxious  to  get  home  because 
of  his  unbroken  year.  His  summers  and  holidays,  and  the 
years  between,  he  had  spent  as  before,  a  hand  on  his  own 
vineyard.  He  had  not  taken  over  the  management  from 
Morton;  it  seemed  best  that  way  till  he  was  back  for  good. 
Several  seasons  he  had  been  employed  at  various  wineries  as 
field  or  inside  manager.  He  helped  with  the  expenses  of  the 
place  that  way,  or  his  services  met  the  payments  on  borrowed 
money.  Now  he  was  back  for  good  and  he  was  glad. 

Duncan  had  necessarily  been  a  "dig"  at  college  and  thereby 
he  carried  off  honors  in  the  majority  of  his  classes.  In  his 
home  university  he  had  also  another  and  more  important 
distinction.  He  was  the  best  half  back  the  'varsity  had  ever 
had.  He  played  one  season,  and  gave  it  up  because  he  couldn't 
afford  to  break  his  neck,  or  any  part  of  his  anatomy  that  would 
lay  him  up  and  cost  him  a  doctor's  bill.  As  the  'varsity's' 
best  "half"  he  was  correspondingly  popu'ar.  He  was  wor 
shipped  by  the  men  and  ogled  by  the  girls  and  made  much  of 
after  the  manner  of  a  college  hero,  but  as  well  hang  garlands 
on  a  buffalo  as  laurels  on  Duncan,  as  well  rest  a  halo  on  the  head 
of  a  busy  blacksmith.  Duncan  was  not  made  for  wearing 
either  garlands  or  halos.  Neither  knew  he  "college  spirit,' 
so  called. 

Duncan  was  glad  to  get  back.  He  had  been  needed  every 
day  he  was  gone.  Morton  had  been  unaccountably  going  to 
pieces,  everything  was  at  loose  ends  and  he  would  have  his 
hands  full.  It  was  a  good  day  to  begin.  Steering  with  one 
hand  he  drew  off  his  coat  and  threw  it  behind  him  in  the  car  and 
squared  his  shoulders  to  the  spring  sun.  It  felt  good  to  his 
flesh  after  the  clammy  air  and  stoop  of  the  class  rooms. 

"What's  to  get?"  he  asked  the  boy^  falling  into  the  colloqui 
alisms  he  had  never  abandoned.  There  were  groceries  and  a 


52  THE    CLAW 

hundred  yards  of  fence  wire  to  get  and  some  new  pruning  shears 
to  be  called  for  at  Brook's.  Probably  Morton  had  ordered  the 
wrong  kind.  He  generally  did  nowadays.  They  drove  to 
Brook's.  Yes,  they  were  the  wrong  kind.  Duncan  changed 
the  order.  He  was  glad  he  had  gotten  back  in  time  for  the 
pruning  shears. 

At  Brook's  he  was  going  out  of  the  door  when  the  manager 
came  out  of  his  office  and  hailed  him:  "Hey  there,  stranger! 
Ain't  you  going  to  give  your  friends  a  chance  to  say  hello? 
Mighty  glad  to  see  you — didn't  know  you  were  back." 

Duncan  flushed  with  surprise.  In  a  business  way  Brooke 
had  always  been  a  good  enough  friend,  but  his  effus'veness  was 
unusual. 

"That  was  great  work  you  did  for  us  down  at  Washington," 
continued  Brooks.  Congratulations,  and  we're  glad  you're 
back!"  Duncan  thanked  him  and  hurried  .on.  He  was 
anxious  to  get  out  to  the  \ineyard.  As  he  was  getting  into 
the  machine,  a  hand  was  clapped  on  his  arm  and  Mr.  Blythe, 
of  Blythe  &  Co.,  wholesale  dealers,  hailed  him. 

"Well,  hello,  boy!  When  did  you  get  in?  .Back  for  good 
aren't  you?  Say,  right  here  I  want  to  register  my  own  personal 
appreciation  of  your  work  for  us  last  summer.  I  meant  to 
have  written  to  you  but  just  didn't  that  's  all.  If  any  apology 
will  do,  though,  I  may  say  I  dictated  that  letter  the  Association 
sent  you  and  I  meant  every  word  of  it.  Your  work  was  great 
— you  and  your  colleagues — and  simply  saved  the  California 
wine  industry — that's  all.  And  we've  got  something  right 
now  for  you  to  do  if  you  can  give  us  your  time — we'll  see  you 
are  well  paid  for  it.  That's  to  lead  us  in  the  fight  aga'nst  the 
Drys  this  summer.  We've  got  to  beat  that  amendment  and 
we  can  all  right  if  we  get  in  and  work  but  we've  got  t  >  do  that. 
Some  of  our  folks  don't  think  the  prohibitionist  have  got  much 
strength  in  the  state  but  they're  mistaken.  The  Anti-saloon 


THE    CLAW  53 

people — Gaudier  and  his  crowd — have  been  doing  a  lot  of 
work.  You  hav'n't  any  idea  unless  you  have  been  watching 
the  thing  how  much  dry  territory  there  is  in  this  state,  right 
now.  Of  course,  though,  there  are  a  lot  of  folks  who  don't 
want  a  saloon  next  door  to  them  or  in  their  town,  that  would 
buck  the  proposition  of  a  dry  state  and  the  destruction  of  one  of 
California's  biggest  'ndustries  There's  threat  enough  however, 
to  behoove  us  to  get  busy — and  mighty  busy." 

''What  are  your  plans?"  asked  Duncan,  who  was  at  all 
times  practical. 

"Why  the  Royal  Arch  people  will  get  in  their  work  of  course 
with  all  the  resources  they  have  got  at  their  backs,  but  we  wine 
people  have  to  get  into  the  fight.  The  fact  is,  we're  the 
ones  to  swing  it.  Say — just  step  inside  the  Palace  here  where 
we  can  have  something  and  talk  it  over — got  time?" 

"Well  say,  really,  Mr.  Blythe,  I've  just  gotten  in,  and  I  am 
in  a  hurry  to  get  home — been  away  a  year  you  know,  pretty 
near.  How'd  to-morrow  do  for  this?" 

"That's  all  right,  that's  all  right.  To-morrow  is  just  as  good. 
Make  it  to-morrow,  at  my  office.  We've  got  something  else 
up  our  sleeves  for  you,  too.  Tell  you  to-morrow.  Good-by." 

To  his  surprise  and  embarrassment,  Duncan's  course  up  the 
street  was  beset  with  numerous  similar  encounters.  Men  he 
had  had  but  a  slight  acquaintance  with  before,  men  of  affairs 
and  business,  met  him  with  cordiality,  going  out  of  their  way 
to  stop  and  speak  to  him.  Women  whom  he  knew,  with  due 
deference,  as  high  in  social  and  club  circles,  smiled  and  bowed 
with  unwonted  graciousness.  He  was  possessed  of  real  amaze 
ment,  some  embarrassed  pleasure,  and  a  good  deal  of  impatience. 
He  wanted  to  get  home.  In  front  of  the  Journal  office  when  he 
stopped  the  machine  to  go  into  a  supply  shop  next  door,  Norris, 
the  cub  reporter,  laid  violent  hands  on  him  and  dragged  him 


54  THE    CLAW 

demurring  into  the  news  room,   where  he  was  immediately 
surrounded  by  a  bunch  of  hungry  reporters. 

" W 'ell — what  do  you  know  about  this?     Look  who's  here!" 
"Welcome — welcome  to  our  lovely  city!" 

" Welcome  home,  old  man,  and  here's  the  glad  hand!  You 
mutt,  you — you  carry  your  laurels  modestly,  that's  sure.  Why 
didn't  you  let  us  know  you  were  coming?  We'd  of  had  a  proper 
reception  ready  for  you — bunting  and  brass  bands  and  other 
fir  works." 

They  grinned  at  him — McWhirter,  the  city  editor,  "Pop" 
Winston  of  the  Exchanges,  the  sporting  editor  and  Hayward, 
while  Norris  capered  about  the  group  like  a  delighted  terrier. 
It  was  something  to  pick  up  a  scoop  like  this,  even  if  instinct 
prompted  to  turn  it  over  to  his  betters. 

"Sit  right  down  here  and  tell  us  something!"  ordered  Mc 
Whirter,  pushing  him  into  a  chair.  "Hayward,  you  take  it!'' 

Duncan  flushed  up  to  his  hair  roots  like  a  girl,  and  stammered 
in  confusion:  "What?  Aw- — go  on!  I  don't  know  anything. 
I  have'n't  anything  to  say!" 

"Pshaw!  You're  too  modest.  Go  ahead — just  a  word! 
What  you  think  of  he  lobbying  game — the  prospects  of  the 
Dry  campaign — what's  the  wine  crop  prospects  this  year?— 
anything!" 

But  he  shook  them  off  and  bolted  for  the  door.  On  the  steps 
he  turned  back  with  compunction,  to  Norris,  still  at  his  heels 
with  reproachful  eyes. 

"You  can  say  I'm  back — just  got  through.  I'm  going  back 
to  the  vineyard.  The  fight  was  won  this  spring  through- 
through — the  presentation  of  facts  and  the  common  sense  of 


THE    CLAW  55 

the  legislators.  The  same  arguments  will  maintain  the  in 
dustry  against  the  attacks  of  the  prohibition  cranks.  That's 
all."  He  dashed  up  the  street.  Norris  turned  back  with  a 
self  satisfied  grin.  He  had  landed  the  scoop  himself  after  all 
and  a  moment  later  he  was  pounding  off  Duncan's  brief  state 
ment  with  logical  elaboration. 


CHAPTER  SIX 

Duncan  finished  his  last  errand  with  expedition.  He  was 
annoyed  at  the  incident,  that  he  had  allowed  himself  to* 'talk 
for  publication".  He  had  made  a  fool  of  himself  out  of  sym 
pathy  for  little  Norris.  There  were  a  lot  of  things  he  might 
have  said  and  said  better,  if  he  had  to  say  anything. 

He  tortured  himself  as  much  as  two  minutes  with  a  self 
consciousness  of  a  man  who  has  never  known  self  consciousness 
before,  and  then  shook  it  off  with  a  motion  of  his  broad  shoulders. 
He  strode  out  to  the  car  and  headed  homeward,  but  half  a  block 
down  the  street  he  wheeled  back  suddenly. 

"One  more  thing — Gosh!  I  nearly  forgot  Garrison's  little 
sister."  He  swung  into  a  cross  street  and  searched  along 
slowly,  scanning  the  business  houses  until  he  came  to  an 
ostentatious  new  refreshment  shop.  Then  he  drew  up,  stopped 
and  turned  off  the  engine.  He  threw  a  coin  to  the  boy : 

"You  can  put  in  a  half  hour  or  so  as  you  like  while  I'm  gone." 
He  turned  to  the  shop.  He  was  going  to  inquire  for  Garrison's 
little  sister. 

Garrison  was  the  only  close  friend  Duncan  had  made  during 
his  college  life.  He  was  his  room-mate  at  Yale.  Garrison's 
college  course  had  been  pursued  much  as  had  been  Duncan's. 
It  has  been  the  precariousness  of  their  educational  efforts  that 
had  drawn  them  together.  Garrison,  like  Duncan,  was  "per 
petually  broke"  and  the  same  impulses  lent  them  self  denial  in 
the  lighter  things  of  University  life.  Garrison  was  a  soloist 
in  the  college  glee  club.  In  fact,  it  was  the  circumstance  of  his 
leaving  unexpectedly  with  the  club  on  the  annual  European  trip, 
that  elected  Duncan  his  little  sister's  guardian  for  the  summer. 
He  had  intended  to  come  west  himself  and  look  after  her. 

Another  day  Duncan  would  have  sought  Glad  with  pleasure. 


THE    CLAW  57 

He  had  met  her  in  several  week-end  visits  with  Garrison  at 
their  h  me,  or  rather,  the  home  of  a  distant  and  not  wholly 
compatible  relative  with  whom  they  lived.  The  two  were 
orphans. 

Glad  was  the  creature  of  her  own  name.  Duncan  had  never 
imagined  so  exquisite  a  wisp  of  a  child-woman;  such  joy  o' 
life  as  was  conserved  in  her  radiant  little  being.  She  was  like  a 
rainbow — a  bubble — a  vagrant  breeze — a  flower  of  the  morning's 
blossoming:  anything  new  and  fresh  and  vibrant  She  filled 
the  house  with  the  warmth  and  joy  of  a  spring  day.  Her  first 
awe  of  Duncan  had  been  great,  but  it  had  soon  disappeared 
and  the  happiest  of  comradships  had  been  substituted.  She 
received  him  into  her  regard  on  an  equality  with  a  brother.  A 
jo  ly  little  pal  of  both,  she  lavished  on  each  alike  the  adorable 
caresses  of  her  impulsive  little  heart.  He  could  feel  yet,  her 
frank  child  kisses.  They  effected  him  strangely.  Caresses 
had  been  few  in  his  life.  They  were  like  the  remembered 
pressure  of  his  baby  i  ister's  lips,  soft  and  round  and  innocent. 

She  was  a  little  country  girl — Glad — w  th  the  innocence  of  a 
child  and  the  half  allurements  of  a  woman.  Already  her  new 
coquetries  found  place  in  her  home-made  dresses  in  which  she 
betrayed  the  skill  of  some  thrifty  country-woman  and  the  taste 
and  style  of  some  lady  of  fashion  and  feeling  in  her  ancestry. 
Somewhere,  too,  she  drew  the  independence  that  shortly  su- 
gested  the  daring  enterprise  which  had  brought  her  to  California, 
namely,  the  earning  of  her  own  living.  Neighbors  were  going 
west  to  Riverdale.  She  had  not  been  quite  well  the  past 
winter — a  slight  cough  that  gave  her  brother  anxiety.  There 
were  all  sorts  of  opportunities  in  California  for  health  getting 
and  wealth  getting.  Glad  would  go  and  encompass  both,  at 
least  the  roses  in  her  cheeks  again,  and  independence  of  the 
relative  whose  authority  she  resisted.  Glad  went  to  California. 
Friends  of  her  friends  found  her  a  position  in  the  sweetshop 


58  THE    CLAW 

which  Duncan  now  sought.  The  friends  themselves,  dis 
appointed  with  California,  turned  back  home,  but  Glad  stayed. 
She  was  making  six  dollars  a  month  over  expenses — a  vast 
sum.  She  was  sometimes  lonesome,  for  the  friends-of-the- 
friends  had  their  own  interests  and  their  cordiality  waned  after 
the  latter  left.  But  Garrison  would  be  here  in  the  summer  and 
in  the  meantime  Glad  was  making  new  friends. 

Duncan  turned  into  the  door  under  the  sign  of  "Inglenook", 
the  town's  newest  refreshment  place,  boasting  metropolitan 
smartness  and  the  prettiest  girls  in  town.  He  blinked  in  the 
artificial  twilight  of  the  p  ace  and  was  aware  of  a  clammy 
atmosphere,  clammy  orders  and  white  gowned  waitresses 
moving  in  a  dim  vista.  He  asked  a  smart  looking  girl  in 
earrings  and  a  low  cut  blouse  behind  the  candy  counter,  for 
Miss  Garrison.  The  girl  repeated  the  name  vaguely  and  said 
the  e  was  no  one  there  by  that  name. 

"She  's    ashier  here,"  Duncan  helped. 

"That's  a  mistake,"  retorted  the  earringed  one  with  some 
resentment,  "  'cause  I'm  cashier.  She  must  be  some  one  that's 
gone.  J'  want  to  see  th'  proprietor?" 

Duncan  did.  The  proprietor  came  languidly  from  his  cage- 
like  office. 

"I  wanted  to  see  Miss  Garrison,"  said  Duncan  "I'm  told  she 
is'n't  here  any  more." 

"Right!  drawled  the  proprietor,  "She  isn't." 

"Can  you  tell  me  where  she  is?"  asked  Duncan. 

The  proprietor  laughed  amusedly:  "Heaven  knows — I  don't. 
Gone  the  way  of  all  th'  'Chickens',  I  reckon — the  pretty  ones. 
The  ugly  ones  are  the  only  ones  we  can  keep,"  he  added  resent 
fully. 

Duncan  shrugged  his  shoulders  in  disgust:  "Well,  I  guess 
we're  talking  about  different  parties,"  he  said.  "I  expect  I've 


THE    CLAW  59 

got  the  wrong  address.  I  didn't  have  it  with  me  but  thought 
this  was  it."  He  turned  to  go.  The  man  called  after  him. 

"Wait!  Come  back.  Its  all  right.  You  want  to  see  Glad 
Garrison,  the  little  eastern  girl?  Well,  she  was  here,  I  tell  you — 
was  here  till  six  weeks  ago.  Was  my  last  cashier  before  this 
one,"  indicating  her  of  the  earrings.  "But  I  tell  you  she's 
gone.  Gone  to  the  devil  like  most  of  'em  do  when  they're 
beauties  like  her — by  the  cocktail  and  joy-ride  route.  Probably 
she's  across  the  tracks  by  now.  You  wer'n't  particularly 
interested?" 

Duncan's  head  whirled  and  the  place  went  dark  and  remote. 
It  was  not  bodily  faintness  but  mental  swoon.  His  hand  gripped 
the  counter. 

"You  don't  mean  what  you  say!  It's  a  mistake.  It  must  be. 
This  one  is'n't  that  kind.  She  was  the  sweetest,  most  innocent 
little  thing  ever  was — a  little  country  girl.  She's  absolutely 
good  I  tell  you.  Absolutely."  The  man  laughed: 

"Why,  maybe  so.  Well,  I  guess  you  don't  'know  women. 
But  you  ought  to — you're  no  kid  yourself."  He  inspected 
Duncan  with  some  contempt.  "It's  the  absolutely  all  right 
little  country  girls  that  make  the  best  Chickens.  Barn  yard 
raised — y'  know.  They're  fresher  an'  cuter  th:n  the  town 
kind.  And  she  was  a  cute  little  cuss,"  he  laughed  reminiscently, 
"different  from  the  rest  and  more  taking.  I  liked  her."  Dun 
can  stopped  him  with  a  look.  He  could  have  taken  the  man 
by  the  throat. 

"Who  was  responsible?"  he  choked  out.  The  man  laughed 
derisively. 

"Search  me!  There  were  several  of  'em  it  might  have  been. 
She  had  lots  of  company.  The  pretty  ones  always  have." 
Duncan,  however,  was  no  longer  listening:  It  was  she,  then, 
Garrison's  little  sister. 

"For  God's  sake!"  he  cried  aloud,  "Why  didn't  you  do  some- 


60  THE    CLAW 

thing  about  it — why  didn't  you  stop  it?  Why,  she  was  just  a 
child!  They  can't  let  a  child  have  cocktails — they  can't  sell 
liquor  to  minors.  Why  didn't  you  get  the  officers  onto  him?" 

"Oh — pshaw.  What  are  you  talking  about.  They  can  sell 
anything  to  anybody  at  those  cafes.  It's  all  the  go  down  at 
'Charley's'  or  The  Parisian' — that  new  place.  A  table  at  one 
of  the  dansants,  a  cocktail  or  two  and  a  joy-ride,  and  it  s  all 
over.  Easy  enough  when  they  aint  bad." 

"But  you" — pressed  Duncan.  " You're  a  man — a  father, 
maybe.  Why  did'n't  you  advise  her — try  and  get  her  to  see — 
stop  her?"  The  manager  laughed  derisively. 

"Oh  Lord,  man.  We  aint  running  a  rescue  home  here. 
We're  running  a  sweet  shop." 


CHAPTER   SEVEN 

Duncan  had  the  girl's  boarding  address  and  sought  her  there. 
He  had  little  hopes  of  finding  her  but  it  occurred  to  him  he 
might  be  able  to  get  some  clue  to  her. 

He  found  the  house.  It  was  a  shabby  boarding  plac  in  a 
grassless  yard.  The  exterior  wanted  paint  and  the  interior 
soap  and  water.  The  landlady,  in  a  dirty  kimona  and  curl 
papers,  eyed  him  curiously  as  he  lifted  his  hat  at  the  door. 
"Does  Glad  Garrison  live  here?"  Is  she  in?"  The  woman 
was  immediately  interested. 

"Yes,  she's  here.  Who  are  you,  relative?"  Duncan  in 
stinctively  answered,  "Yes". 

"Well,  she  won't  see  you  but  I'm  glad  you've  come.  Come 
in."  she  led  the  way  into  a  parlor  having  a  cellar-like  air  and 
raised  a  shade  to  show  him  a  seat. 

"I  knowed  you  must  be  a  relative  or  friend,  and  a  right  sort," 
she  said,  inspecting  him  leisurely.  "I  could  tell  by  your  looks." 
Duncan  ignored  the  compliment.  "You  know  about  it?" 
She  asked  with  mean'ng  and  some  embarrassment,  avoiding 
his  eyes. 

"Yes,"  his  heart  stood  still  as  he  said  it.     "How  is  she?" 

"She's  sick — awful  sick.  At  least  she  has  been.  She  tried  to 
do  away  with  //  you  know."  The  woman  grew  suddenly  bold, 
speaking  with  the  relish  of  vulgar  minds.  'She  didn't  make  it 
though.  She's  young,  and  it  was  the  first  time  and  all." 
Duncan  shrank  from  her  odious  insinuations. 

"So  she's  in  for  it — 'less  something  happens,  and  I  should 
think  it  would,  the  way  she  takes  on.  I'm  mighty  glad  you 
come.  I'm  at  my  wits  end.  I  can't  have  her  'round  much 
longer,  and  she  don't  know  no  more  what  to  do  than  a  baby." 


62  THE     CLAW 

Duncan  drew  back  in  the  shadow  of  the  room  nauseated  by  the 
woman's  increasing  intimacy  and  loathsome  loquaciousness. 

"Course  she's  got  money.  She's  paid  right  up  and  could 
stay  on —  '  Duncan  interrupted  hoarsely: 

"You  don't  mean  she's  become  a — a  common — ?" 

"Oh,  bless  your  life  no.  That's  the  trouble.  She  aint  that 
kind — or  was'n't.  That's  the  reason  she  takes  it  so  serious. 
If  she  didn't  she'd  get  rid  of  it  reg'lar,  at  th'  doctors  and  take  up 
with  some  offer  across  the  track.  It's  too  bad  but  its  the  only 
way  for  girls  when  they  get  in  bad  once — 

"Let  me  see  her,"  said  Duncan,  coldly. 

"Well,  we  can  try,  but  she  won't  come  down  here.  Maybe 
she'll  let  you  in,  though,  if  we  kind  of  surprise  her."  The 
woman  led  the  way  up  stairs  to  a  back  bed-room.  She  knocked. 
There  was  no  answer  and  she  opened  the  door. 

Glad  was  sleeping  but  there  was  no  repose  in  her  sleep.  Her 
disordered  hair  lay  across  the  soiled  pillow-case.  She  lay  upon 
her  face,  her  head  straining  against  the  pillow  as  against  iron 
bars.  The  hand  that  lay  on  the  bed-covering  was  clenched. 
From  the  delicate  profile  every  childish  curve  and  dimple  had 
fled  and  the  lines,  sharp  and  strained,  expressed  even  in  her 
sleep  an  agony  of  mental  suffering.  Every  vestige  of  former 
freshness  was  gone  from  her  fair  skin.  Even  her  hair  had  lost 
its  brightness.  She  was  a  creature  out  of  which  the  radiance 
had  burnt  as  from  a  light  behind  an  ornate  shade,  leaving  a 
ghas  liness  which  indicated  not  only  physical  decadency  but 
spiritual  decay.  All  her  misery  spoke  in  her  abandoned  and 
unconscious  form.  It  was  a  revelation  complete  and  over 
whelming. 

Duncan  was  faint  with  the  sight.  With  the  ghastliness  of 
the  change.  Once,  when  walking  home  along  the  vineyard 
rows  he  had  stopped  to  listen  to  a  mocking  bird,  unseen  in  a 
eucalyptus  tree  above  his  head.  The  exultant  notes  came 


THE     CLAW  63 

falling  down  from  the  little  singer's  throat  like  drops  of  crystal 
clear  water,  when  suddenly  a  shot  broke  off  the  melody  and  the 
little  singer  plunged  downward  with  his  song  and  fell  limp  and 
dead  at  Duncan's  feet.  Duncan  stooped  and  picked  up  the 
little  body,  still  vibrating  with  the  last  ineffable  note  and 
pressed  it  in  an  agony  to  his  bosom  and  his  throat  hurt — like 
this. 

Duncan  looked  at  the  spectacle  before  him  and  his  throat 
burned  with  a  deadly  hurt.     "And  ibis  by  the  beastliness  of 
man — the  brute  greed  that  'refuses  nothing  of  life'  for  himself.'  ' 
To  have  the  man  that  did  this  thing,  by  the  throat — between 
his  two   strong   hands — so! 

Glad  stirred  and  with  a  long  sigh  that  was  a  sob  she  took  hold 
on  consciousness.  She  sat  up  slowly  pushing  her  disordered 
hair  from  her  forehead.  Her  senses  took  hold  of  life  again  and 
of  its  misery.  Her  head  dropped  in  her  hands  and  a  long 
shivering  shook  her  body.  Duncan  could  not  bear  it  no 
longer.  "Glad." 

She  started  up  w  th  a  look  of  amazement — "Duncan."  Her 
cry  was  one  of  peculiar  and  never  to  be  forgotten  pain.  She 
snatched  the  coverlets  to  her  and  burrowed  back  into  the 
pillows  like  a  wild  thing.  Duncan  reached  the  bed  with  a 
stride  and  sat  down  on  its  edge.  He  drew  the  girl  to  him  with 
an  overwhelming  tenderness. 

"Glad,  you  are  not  afraid  of  me  are  you?  You  are  glad  to 
see  me?" 

"Oh,  no,  no.  Go  away!,  go  away!.  Don't  touch  me!  My 
God,  didn't  they  tell  you?"  She  fell  into  terrible  sobbing, 
beating  her  forehead  with  her  clenched  fists. 

"There"  exclaimed  the  landlady,  "I  told  you — she  goes  on 
just  like  that — something  fierce.  Well  its  going  to  make 
things  just  as  bad  as  can  be  for  her,  and  //  too."  Duncan  signed 
for  the  woman  to  leave  them. 


64  THE    CLAW 

"Oh,  my  God!  Oh,  my  God!  What  am  I  going  to  do?  It  was 
bad  enough  before  but  now  }rou've  come  and  found  me  and 
you'll  tell  him.  You  mustn't  tell  him.  Promise  you  wont 
tell  him — Oh,  why  did  you  come?"  She  fell  into  a  paroxysm  of 
weeping  again. 

"Listen,  to  me,  Glad."  Duncan  had  often  taken  wild  little 
things  into  his  hands  and  his  strength  and  gentleness  had 
quieted  them.  Glad  ceased  to  cry  and  sat  looking  at  him  with 
wet  and  despairing  eyes.  "I  wont  tell  him,"  Duncan  said. 
"Garrison  shall  not  know.  He  shall  never  know — not  now — 
not  till  you  like.  But  you  must  calm  yourself  and  we  must 
think."  It  came  to  him  suddenly,  the  stupendousness  of  the 
problem  that  faced  him,  and  its  ironical  novelty,  but  he  spoke 
with  assurance.  "I  came  because  Hugh  wanted  me  to  look 
you  up.  He  never  dreamed — he  has  left  for  Europe — he  sent 
the  telegram  and  you  answered  it,  you  know." 

"Yes,  and  I  was  glad — I  wanted  him  to  go,  and  never  know, 
and  when  he  came  back  I  would  be — dead,  or  not  here  or 
something —  she  shuddered. 

"You  must  not  talk  that  way,"  he  said.  Involuntarily  his 
hand  smoothed  back  her  disordered  hair.  It's  caress  filled  her 
with  new  agony.  "Ah,  you  must  no  be  kind  to  me — I'm  so 
bad.  And  yet — I'm  not  bad!  Oh,  no,  truly  I  was  not.  You 
knew  I  wasn't  when  I  was  home  with  you  and  Hugh.  I  was  all 
right  then — tell  me  you  know  I  was  good."  Her  face  was 
again  a  little  girl's.  He  kissed  her  with  involuntary  tenderness 
as  he  would  a  hurt  child.  "God  knows  you  were."  he  said. 

"Ah,"  she  drew  a  long  relieving  sigh.  "And  I  was  good  here. 
I  never  meant  any  harm  when  they'd  come  in  and  talk  and  jolly. 
I  was  lonesome  and  they  were  kind.  I  wanted  some  fun  and 
they  gave  it  to  me — shows  and  automob  le  rides  and  those 
things,  like  I  never  had  before.  I  liked  to  dress  up  and  have 


THE    CLAW  65 

them  tell  me  I  was  pretty.  Oh,  it  was  silly,  I  know,  but  I 
didn't  mean  any  harm. 

"And  some  of  them  were  just  boys.  There  was  one/ — such  a 
nice  boy."  Her  eyes  filled  strangely,  "and  he  liked  me.  He 
worked  in  the  newspaper  office,  and  he  liked  me  but  he  kissed 
me  once  and  it  made  me  mad.  I  was  like  that,  you  know — 
I  wasn't  bad. 

"But  some  of  them  were  grown  men,  and  it  made  me  proud 
that  they  should  like  me.  This  one  was  a  man — "  she  paused 
and  shuddered,  "He  was  the  oldest  and  handsomest,  and  I 
went  with  him  because  the  rest  of  the  girls  said  he  was  a  swell 
catch  and  were  jealous.  And  he  seemed  the  safest  of  all — he 
never  tried  to  kiss  me,  but  once,  and  then  he  said  he  liked  me 
because  I  wouldn't  let  him. 

"But  one  night  we  went  to  The  Parisian  after  midnight.  I 
didn't  want  to  go  but  there  was  a  crowd  of  us  and  they  dared 
me.  I  didn't  mean  to  go  then,  but  he  said  to  be  game  and  that 
he'd  take  care  of  me. 

"And  so  we  went.  There  was  dinner  with  dancing  between — 
you  know.  It  was  jolly.  And  they  had  cocktails.  I  didn't 
want  to  take  any  but  they  said  I  wasn't  a  sport.  He  said  I  was 
a  sport — he  always  stood  up  for  me — so  I  had  to  have  some. 
And  then  we  had  some  more  and  then  some  more,  and  I  forgot 
where  I  was  and  what  I  was  doing,  and  everything  seemed 
changed  and  everything  seemed  right — and — and —  She 
buried  her  face  in  her  hands — turning  from  him.  "I  don't 
know  the  rest! 

"Oh."  she  cr'ed  suddenly,  flinging  her  hands  from  her  eyes 
and  staring  at  him  with  rigid  face.  "You  must  believe  that! 
You  must  believe  that — that  I  didn't  know!  It  was  the  wine  that 
dii  it — do  you  hear?  The  wine!  And  he  meant  that  it  should 
—he  meant  it,  a  1  the  time.  Oh!"  there  was  a  world  of  hatred 
in  her  quick-caught  breath. 


60  THE    CLAW 

"Its  an  awful  thing  to  forget  what's  right.  Its  an  awful 
thing  for  anybody  to  take  away  your  knowing  what's  right." 
She  said  the  words  and  repeated  them  like  a  memorization 
burned  into  her  brain  by  continuous  repetition,  her  eyes  half 
closed,  her  body  held  rigidly  as  resisting  physical  pain.  She 
continued,  her  shyness,  her  sense  of  modesty  that  normally 
would  have  hampered  her  thoughts,  were  lost,  inhibited  by  her 
passion  for  relief  and  vindication. 

"J  never  s  w  him  again.  He  went  away  that  night.  After 
ward  I  remembered  that  he  was  to  go  away  that  night.  And  I 
don't  know  where  he  is,  or  where  he  was  going.  I  never 
thought  to  ask,  somehow." 

She  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  her  chin  in  her  hands;  her  head 
aslant,  crouchingly,  like  an  animal  which  has  been  struck  and 
cowed,  and  her  attitude  was,  to  Duncan,  a  painful  sign  of  the 
tragic  change  in  her,  the  dethroning  of  the  human 

"When  I  knew,  I  tried  to  kill  //,"  she  whispered,  "but  // 
wouldn't  die — //  won't  die.  I  know  It  won't.  I  can  see  It's 
eyes  now.  And  they  ask  'How  it  came  to  beJ  They  always 
ask,  '  How  it  came  to  be'." 

She  shrank  from  her  self,  her  eyes  dilating,  her  hands  pushing 
as  though  to  dislodge  hands  clinging  to  her;  pressing  as  if  to  hide 
the  face  looking  into  her's;  clutching,  tearing  as  though  to  cast 
out  the  horror  within  her  body.  It  was  fearful — terrible- 
more  frightful  than  anything  Duncan  had  ever  dreamed.  And 
beside  this  vision  of  the  distraught  and  grovelling  woman,  was 
the  picture  of  Glad,  the  child — the  free  and  joyous  creature  he 
had  known.  The  contrast  was  unspeakable. 

She  was  rocking  hysterically  now  and  wringing  her  hands. 
"Oh,  God!  What  shall  I  do?  What  shall  I  do?" 

"It  will  go  on  living.  It  will  be  a  child  and  //  will  hate  me, 
and  a  woman  and  //  will  despise  me!  All  will  despise  me  and 
it  will  be  because  he  did  it.  Because  he  made  me  forget — Oh, 


THE    CLAW  67 

God — Oh,  God!  She  paused  suddenly.  A  paroxysm  siezed 
her — the  paroxysm  of  hysteria — and  brought  her  to  her  feet, 
rigid,  eyes  fixed  and  terrible.  Then  the  reaction  came — she 
drooped  and  reeled  and  Duncan,  calling  sharply  for  the  landlady, 
caught  her  and  laid  her  gently  on  the  bed. 

Outside  the  door,  when  the  fainting  fit  had  passed,  he  gave 
brief  orders.  "She  must  have  physical  attention.  Call  Dr. 
Elliot — here — Black  157  Do  what  he  adv'ses  for  her — the 
hospital  or  whatever  he  says.  I  will  see  him  about  the  bills. 
Tell  her  not  to  worry — not  to  think — I'll  tell  nothing,  and  I 
will  see  her  tomorrow." 

At  the  gate  he  met  a  girl  in  ostentatious  dress — the  low-cut 
blouse  and  high  heels,  the  high  slit  skirt  and  bold  eyes  of  the 
many  familiar  to  him  as  a  part  of  the  streets,  like  the  theater 
signs,  the  newsboy  or  the  eternal  blind  man  at  the  street  corner. 
She  paused  in  insolent  pose,  classifying  him,  appraising  him, 
from  under  the  low  brim  of  her  hat.  She  was  young,  she  was 
beautiful  with  the  beauty  of  the  perfect  female  species  newly 
arrived  at  sex  perfection.  Every  asset  of  phys'cal  charm  was 
enhanced  by  the  cunning  disclosures  of  her  filmy  dress. 

"Hello,  kid."  The  gate  was  wide  and  he  stood  aside  to 
let  her  pass,  but  she  lingered.  Her  voice  was  like  a  purr. 
"Been  to  see  the  country  kid?  How  is  she  today?"  Duncan 
looked  at  her. 

"She's  not  here,"  he  lied. 

"Oh,  well  then —  She  pushed  her  face  insolently  up  into 
his.  "You  needn't  be  so — 50,"  she  mocked,  with  exaggerated 
dignity.  "You're  a  good  boy,  ain't  you?  I  reckon  you're  her 
brother?  Yes?"  There  was  interrogation  in  her  voice. 

"Yes,"  lied  Duncan.  He  passed  on  and  heard  her  low 
mocking  laugh,  as  she  looked  after  him. 


68  THE     CLAW 

"Well,  good  bye — kid."  He  shuddered.  Glad  might  have 
been  like  this,  might  be  yet — this  was  one  of  her  friends.  He 
had  lied  involuntarily,  instinctively,  as  when  danger  threatens. 
He  was  glad  he  had  done  it.  He  must  save  the  girl  from  this 
later  fate. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

Duncan  drove  home  in  a  revery  that  took  no  note  of  things 
external.  Ordinarily  he  would  have  seen  everything,  noted 
everything  in  the  familiar  landscape — the  growth  of  the  vine 
yards,  the  new  ones  set  out  during  his  absence,  and  the  im 
provements  in  the  old;  the  new  buildings  and  equ'pment  that 
spoke  of  the  growing  prosperity  of  his  thrifty  neighbors  and 
the  increasing  evidence  of  neglect  in  the  land  of  the  neighbor  of 
easy  theories.  He  would  have  gleaned  as  much  information 
of  the  home  vineyard  and  the  history  of  the  past  year's  business 
as  the  boy  at  his  side  could  give  him  and  would  have  been  able 
to  launch  into  the  business  of  the  place  with  Morton,  the  fore 
man,  on  reaching  home,  almost  as  if  he  had  never  been  away. 
The  flattering  incidents  of  his  reception  by  the  wine  men  and 
his  other  f  lends  were  such  that  even  his  slow  egotism  would 
have  been  stirred  to  gratification  and  some  wonder  if  it  had  not 
been  for  the  vivid  impressions  induced  by  the  incident  involving 
Garrison's  little  sister  and  which  inhibited  for  the  present  all 
other  ideas.  The  facts  were  hideous  and  cut  a  path  across 
the  normal  trend  of  Duncan's  thoughts — new,  startling  and 
confusing. 

Duncan  had  never  philosophized  concerning  men  and  life. 
From  a  child  his  dealings  had  been  with  the  practical.  He 
had  no  time  for  dreameries  and  the  world  had  emerged  into 
his  consciousness  ready-made.  Moral  concern  for  himself  or 
others  had  never  been  a  part  of  his  consideration.  He  was 
aware  of  the  existence  of  good  men  and  bad  men,  of  good  women 
and  bad  women,  but  these  things  belonged  wholly  to  the 
established  regime  of  the  universe,  with  which  he  had  nothing 
whatever  to  do.  Any  attempt  to  change  the  order,  the  hysteri 
cal  concern  of  certain  people,  societies  and  sects,  in  the  private 


70  THE    CLAW 

affairs  of  the  individual,  he  treated  with  contempt  as  an  evi 
dence  of  bad  taste. 

His  religious  ideas  were  wholly  abstract  and  unemotional 
and  were  expressed  in  the  form  of  the  High  Church  of  which 
his  father's  family  were  members.  He  never  had  known  the 
spiritual  sensitiveness  common  to  many  at  adolescence.  He 
had  not  inherited  soul  struggle  from  either  parent.  To  an 
unusual  degree  he  had  escaped  the  enlarging  influences  of  the 
new  altruism,  the  passion  for  social  service  and  the  broad  out 
look  fostered  in  many  of  the  departments  of  study  and  the 
numerous  societies,  religious  and  social,  of  the  university.  His 
course  of  study  had  embraced  none  of  the  former  and  his 
prejudices  kept  him  from  participation  in  the  latter.  Tli3  very 
meagerness  of  his  college  life  the  ignoring  of  the  social  and 
fraternal  side;  the  painful  application  to  the  object  in  hand 
to  the  exclusion  of  the  larger  life  and  spirit  of  the  school  which 
is  half,  perhaps  two-thirds,  of  the  value  of  the  university,  was 
due  to  his  devotion  to  his  life  object.  That  object  was  his 
father's  ambition  for  La  Mesa  Vineyard. 

He,  who  had  had  little  consciousness  of  personal  respon 
sibility,  was  now  choked  by  the  catastrophe  into  a  fury  of  ac 
cusation  against  the  causes  that  permitted  such  an  outrage. 
He  raged  impotently . like  one  striking  out  in  the  dark:  "How 
could  this  thing  be  in  a  town  of  decent  men  and  women,  a 
place  of  churches  and  charities  and  societies  that  pretend  to 
keep  things  moving  along  decent  lines?  For,  that  the  girl 
was  guiltless  of  blame  for  her  fate,  he  doubted  not  for  a  moment; 
her  emotions  were  too  sincere,  the  agony  of  her  reflections  too 
genuine.  Some  slight  indiscretions,  the  result  of  her  inex 
perience  and  her  impulsive,  affectionate  nature,  might  have 
been  hers,  but  she  had  the  instinct  of  self-preservation  which 
belongs  to  the  girl  of  right  breeding.  In  a  moment  such  as 


THE    CLAW  71 

that    with  the  lad  she  described,    her  coquetry  had  vanished 
and  resentment  of  a  liberty  emerged  involuntarily. 

He  wondered  vaguely  who  the  offender  was,  and  Norris' 
handsome,  roguish  face,  with  its  expression  of  fun  and  gal 
lantry,  emerged.  Norris — it  was  no  doubt,  Norris.  Trust 
him  to  know  where  the  prettiest  girls  were  to  be  found.  Norris 
—who  had  all  the  innocent  girl-lust  of  a  splendidly  normal  lad; 
the  instinct  of  the  male  of  all  species,  to  bedazzle  and  subju 
gate,  whether  by  a  superior  spread  of  tail-feathers,  or  a  new 
Palm  Beach  suit  of  overwhelming  smartness.  And  she,  poor 
little  fool,  afraid  before  his  boyish  and  innocent  fervor  had 
turned  away  from  the  boy,  whose  impulses  were  as  clean  as 
his  linen  to  the  protection  of  this  beast  who  looked  like  a  man. 
The  irony  of  it! 

It  was  worse  than  that.  This  brute  had  done  more  than 
blight  innocence  and  invoke  a  life — he  had  accomplished  the 
forced  birth  of  a  soul.  Duncan  saw  it  all:  Glad,  a  child  yester 
day,  today  looked  upon  the  world  with  the  eyes  of  a  woman 
and  found  it  hideous.  Ah — the  villainy  of  it!  A  birth  that 
should  have  been  an  ineffable  dawn,  all  the  sweet  emotions, 
the  uninterpreted  impulses,  the  vague  wonderings  and  desires; 
the  whispering  promises  of  a  girl's  life  moving  by  normal  laws 
of  being  into  that  of  a  woman — all  this  beauty  and  glory  torn 
away  and  realities  interpreted  in  terms  of  brutishness;  ma 
ternity,  God  help  her,  the  crowning  glory  of  her  woman's  life, 
a  hideous  compulsion,  it's  sweet  and  sacred  meaning  a  shattered 
thing.  He  thought  of  life  conceived  in  such  brutishness. 
What  must  it  be  other  than  the  horror  Glad's  terrified  eyes 
perceived? 

In  his  fury  was  united  tenderness  for  the  girl,  his  own  out 
raged  sensibilities  and  the  responsibility  he  felt  himself  charged 
with  by  Garrison.  He  would  find  this  man  and  bring  him  to 
punishment.  He  would  investigate  the  Parisian.  He  had 


72  THE     CLAW 

learned  of  the  cafe.  Rumors  had  reached  him  the  year  before 
from  visiting  boys  of  the  growing  notoriety  of  the  place,  of  its 
flaunted  Bohemianism.  To  visit  the  Parisian  was  a  night's 
adventure.  He  had  heard  the  stories  of  their  larks  with  the 
disgust  he  felt  for  such  things;  things  for  which  he  felt 
neither  sympathy  or  craving. 

It  was  just  such  excesses  and  evils,  he  thought,  that  provided 
the  material  for  the  Dry  agitation.  However  unassignable  to 
the  honest  forms  of  the  industry  such  things  might  be,  it  be 
hooved  the  liquor  people  to  stand  responsible  for  the  same  to 
the  extent  of  making  investigation  and  providing  regulations 
that  would  eliminate  the  evils. 

For  the  first  time  he  pondered  the  moral  order  of  things. 
There  were  good  men  and  bad  men  good  women  and  bad 
women.  But  the  bad  had  power  over  the  good.  Glad's 
solemn  enunciation  of  her  new  convictions  repeated  itself  in 
h's  mind:  "It's  an  awful  thing  to  forget  what's  right!  It's  an 
awful  thing  for  anyone  to  take  away  one's  knowing  what 
is  right!" 

Suddenly  upon  his  own  new  sensibilities  flashed,  with  stag 
gering  vividness  the  fraility  of  volition,  the  precariousness  of 
it:  volition,  controlling  conduct  and  choices;  volition,  governed 
in  that  conduct  and  choice  by  judgement,  by  conclusions,  the 
maturest  fruit  of  experience,  the  instincts  of  ancestry,  surviv 
ing  to  guide  the  man  or  woman  into  the  ways  that  make  for 
their  welfare  and  happiness;  this  volition  so  perilously  poised; 
the  scale  of  choice  changed  by  mere  accident,  more,  by 
the  volition  of  another 

Here  was  Glad  the  child  fortified  by  clean  ancestry  and  clean 
instinct  against  direct  attack.  But  the  designs  of  a  brute 
mind  had  swept  the  fabric  of  moral  protection  away  in  a 
moment;  had  substituted  another  will  and  impulse,  provided 
by  the  transforming  power  of  the  wine.  This  frightful  change, 


THE    CLAW  73 

with  all  its  future  train  of  suffering,  in  a  pure  and  lovely  girl! 
There  was  need  of  preaching!  There  was  need  of  teaching  and 
legislation! — need?  God!  How  many  other  crimes  and  mis 
eries,  in  how  many  other  ways,  were  being  worked  every  day 
by  men  and  women  of  evil  design?  And  he  had  thought  all 
his  days  that  goodness  was  a  stable  thing,  established  and  un 
assailable,  and  agitating  an  unbecoming  and  unnecessary  ac 
tivity.  Instead,  it  was  assailed  powerfully,  and  every  day,  by 
Evil  with  deadly  intent  against  its  foundation. 

Duncan  had  heard  the  jeering  materialist  say  that  all  forms 
of  morality  and  virtue  were  but  instincts  of  self-preservation. 
Well,  he  was  willing  to  accept  the  definition.  And  normally, 
men  and  women  took  that  way — normal  men  and  women  took 
that  way.  But  since  abnormal  men  and  women — men  and 
women  ignorant,  immoral  and  vicious — in  their  ignorance  and 
viciousness  assailed  that  way,  it  must  be  guarded.  He  saw  it! 
He  saw  it  as  though  at  its  first  unveiling.  The  conception  of 
all  moral  effort  //  was  effort  for  the  preservation  of  life. 

Well  then,  such  interests  were  not  the  petty  and  uncalled-for 
thing  he  had  regarded  them  and  the  preacher  and  the  teacher 
and  the  reformer,  active  at  their  business,  were  not  cranks 
and  interferers  in  other  people's  business.  Why,  it  was  the 
logical  business  of  all  men,  who  themselves  desired  to  live,  to 
engage  in  that  business;  not  just  the  few;  to  co  operate  in  the 
business  of  making  the  world  a  safe  and  wholesome  place  for 
individuals  and  humanity. 

Why  did  men  orgsnize  in  the  material  realm — the  wine 
growers,  the  orange-growers,  the  business  men? — for  material 
benefit,  for  protection  and  development  of  their  interests? 
And  if  co-operation — attentive,  intelligent  co-operation — was 
useful  on  the  material  plane,  how  much  more  so  in  the  moral 
world,  the  power-house  from  which  run  all  the  determining 
wires  of  men's  conduct  and  intercourse. 


74  THE    CLAW 

And  yet  men  made  light  of  this  department  of  life;  depre 
cated,  ignored  it  as  though  it  touched  them  not  at  all;  men, 
like  himself,  with  brawn  and  muscle  and  practical  common 
sense,  left  the  business  of  morality  and  religion  to  women 
and  ministers  and  spineless  young  men.  If  his  fist  had  been 
in  such  efforts  in  this  town,  Glad  would  not  now  be  the  aban 
doned,  pathetic  creature  she  was.  He  would  have  his 
fist  in  it  henceforth.  He  had  been  narrow  in  his  views  and 
mode  of  life;  he  had  made  his  ideals — the  fulfillment  of  his 
father's  ambitions — narrow;  constructed  them  in  little  terms. 
He  would  live  more  in  touch  with  his  fellows— that  was  what 
his  father  had  done — so  he  could  feel  their  need. 

Duncan  had  seen  a  light.  There  was  no  outward  trans 
formation  in  him;  the  same  self-contained,  reserved  man  sat 
beh'nd  the  wheel  of  his  machine  guiding  the  car  over  the  not 
too  smooth  roads  with  consumate,  subconscious  skill,  his  pipe 
gripped  between  his  teeth.  The  vision  he  had  caught  was  one 
of  those  phenomena  of  the  inner  mind,  an  illumination  in 
the  far  recesses  of  the  soul  that  flashes  up  suddenly  like  a  lighted 
match  in  a  dark  room,  like  lightning  on  a  landscape,  out  in  an 
instant,  but  in  that  brief  moment  revealing  spiritual  realities 
and  showing  the  way. 

Duncan  was  at  La  Mesa  Vineyard  and  with  a  turn  of  the 
wheel,  spun  the  machine  into  the  circular  driveway  and  stopped 
at  the  door  of  his  home. 


CHAPTER  NINE 

Duncan's  mother  had  heard  the  sound  of  the  car  and  was 
waiting  for  him  on  the  veranda.  The  Scotch  are  not  demon 
strative  in  their  greetings,  besides,  at  such  times,  with  Jeanie 
and  herson,  beloved  vanished  forms  stood  in  the  shadowy  back 
ground  and  the  thoughts  of  both  were  too  poignant  for  words. 

While  Duncan  ate  a  belated  supper,  Jeanie  detailed  the  news 
of  the  place.  There  were  eight  months  to  be  covered,  for  Jeanie 
did  not  write  letters  readily,  and  only  the  affairs  absolutely 
necessitating  Duncan's  attention  were  recited  in  her  brief 
missives. 

Jeanie  spoke  still  with  the  broad  Scotch  of  her  father's  family. 
It  was  a  circumstance  indicative  of  her  native  inadaptability 
and  hampered  development.  She  never  had  had  but  the  most 
formal  acquaintance  with  her  husband's  friends.  Her  asso 
ciations  had  been  almost  wholly  confined  to  the  members  of 
her  family  and  the  visitors  the  house  had  scarcely  ever  been 
without,  in  Cameron's  day — Scotch  people,  who  made  a  tem 
poral  y  home  with  the  family  while  looking  about  them  to 
locate.  Not  a  few  of  these  were  from  her  own  village;  lads  who 
worked  for  a  time  for  Douglas  before  starting  out  for  them 
selves;  and  fresh-faced  young  Scotch  lassies,  lured  to  the  "land 
of  promise,"  who  were  wont  to  help  Jeanie  with  her  domestic 
duties  while  they  made  their  home  with  her.  In  this  way  the 
old  associations  and  the  characteristics  of  speech  which,  with 
the  middle  class  Scotch  amount  almost  to  a  tongue,  were  kept 
up  in  the  Cameron  home,  the  older  Douglas  frequently  saying 
facetiously  that  he  was  the  only  member  of  his  household 
who  spoke  English. 

During  Duncan's  absence,  since  she  had  been  much  alone, 
Jeanie  had  reverted  in  a  strange  degree  to  the  ways  of  her  own 


76  THE    CLAW 

family;  Duncan  noticed  it  at  once,  in  her  speech,  in  her  dress, 
in  many  little  mannerisms.  It  struck  him  as  pathetic  and  re 
proachful.  He  must  make  up  to  his  mother  for  these  years  of 
loneliness — these  years  during  which  gray  hairs  and  age  had 
begun  to  creep  upon  her. 

The  concern  of  most  consequence  that  occupied  the  atten 
tion  of  the  two  tonight  was  Morton.  Duncan  had  thought  to 
retain  his  manager  until  the  next  grape  crop  was  harvested  at 
least,  but  Morton's  growing  inefficiency  threatened  the  neces 
sity  of  his  discharge. 

This  affair  of  Morton's  makes  me  sick,"  said  Duncan,  as 
they  sought  the  coolness  of  the  veranda  after  supper,  where 
the  latter  smoked  while  Jeanie  employed  herself  on  her 
endless  needle-work. 

"I'd  rather  do  most  anything  than  be  forced  to  fire  him,  but 
from  just  the  little  I  got  from  the  boy  about  recent  affairs  on 
the  vineyard  and  what  you've  said,  Morton  has  made  a  dozen 
foolish  moves  within  the  past  few  weeks  and  we  can't  stand  it. 
How  long  has  it  been  tanking  up  like  this?" 

"Oh,  come  a  year  and  a  half  noo,  y'e  ken  he  was  fair  daft 
a  half  a  dozen  times  wi  the  booze  last  simmer  when  ye  were 
hame  before,  after  he  come  back  frae  the  city." 

"I  know,  but  that's  rather  to  be  looked  for — the  celebration 
of  his  freedom  from  a  year's  responsibility.  I  didn't  like  to  see 
it,  but  it's  the  way  with  a  lot  of  men,  and  I  thought  when  he 
got  back  on  the  job  he'd  settle  down  and  put  away  his  non 
sense." 

"Weel,  he  didna.  An'  it's  been  a  sair  year  for  Elsie  and  the 
bairns — a  nither  on  the  w'y  too.  An'  though  she  says  naething, 
I'm  thinking  she's  been  sair  pit  to,  to  keep  the  house  goin'  an' 
the  bairns  clothed.  An'  in  her  foolish  woman's  way  she  bears 
it  against  us.  She's  got  the  thocht  of  some  of  the  prohi- 
beetionists  and  says  we  who  raise  the  grapes  are  responsible 


THE    CLAW  77 

for  her  nion's  habits.  But  it's  juist  the  hurt  o'  her  am  sorrow, 
puir  lassie,  an'  I  think  naething  o'  it." 

Duncan  made  a  jesture  of  impatience  and  distress.  Elsie 
had  been  a  member  of  their  household  for  years.  She  was 
married  to  Morton  in  the  family  parlor.  He  had  never  been 
able  to  take  the  misguided  accusations  of  men  and  women 
against  his  business,  with  the  indifference  of  his  father.  Scorn 
ing  them  as  the  product  of  distorted  reasoning  yet  they  hurt 
him  for  they  came  not  infrequently  from  those  whose  esteem 
he  prized. 

"It's  Elsie  I'm  thinking  of  more  than  Morton  in  this  matter," 
he  said.  "I  can't  bear  to  turn  him  off  on  her  account  and  the 
children's.  I'll  talk  the  matter  over  with  him;  perhaps  we 
can  help  him  brace  up.  I  need  him  and  he  needs  the  place. 
By  the  way,  where  does  he  get  the  stuff?  I'll  go  and  see  that 
they  refuse  him.  That  s  one  of  the  new  and  excellent  saloon 
regulations — to  refuse  to  sell  to  a  man  who  is  drunk,  or  is 
getting  the  habit.  If  the  saloons  would  keep  to  these  regula 
tions  they'd  better  themselves  and  restore  the  institution  to 
its  former  place  of  respect  in  the  community.  Confound  it! 
They've  got  to,  or  they're  going  to  be  put  out  of  business,  and 
rightly  so." 

"Yes,  I  ha'  nae  doot,  but  Morton  gets  his  drink  in  town 
when  he  goes  there — Elsie  says,  as  the  head  o'  th'  vineyard 
an'  your  substitute,  he's  gettin'  in  wi'  the  business  and  social 
eelement" — Duncan  shrugged  his  shoulders — "an'  has  to 
drink  mair  for  sociabeelity  sake  than  former,  but  since  he  has 
taken  to  it  steady  he  gets  maist  o'  it  frae  the  winery  here. 
It's  easy  o'  access,  and  they  don't  refuse  onyone.  It's  no 
been  gude  frae  the  men,  especially  the  help,"  added  Jeanie 
with  uneasiness.  "In  fact,"  she  hesitated,  "I  ha'  something 
to  tell  ye  that  I'd  rather  no',  or  wish  was  already  told.  1 
didna  write  ye  because  it  was  near  yir  last  week  an'  I  knew 


78  THE    CLAW 

ye'd  be  engaged  wi'  ye're  examinations  an'  shouldna  be  dis- 
tairbed." 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Duncan,  with  unconscious  sternness. 
He  took  his  pipe  from  his  mouth  and  knocking  out  the  ashes, 
waited.  Jeanie  flushed,  there  was  rebuke  in  his  manner. 

"Weel,  Antonio  is  in  sai  trouble.  It's  been  ain  o'  the  troubles 
o'  the  place — Morton's  supplanting  the  former  help  wi'  cheap 
labor,  th'  Hindoos  an'  other  riff-raff  he  could  pick  up."  She 
hurried  on,  admonished  by  Duncan's  sober,  and  uncommunica 
tive  face 

"There's  been  bad  bluid  between  the  Mexicans  an'  the  new 
men.     A  lot  mair  drinkin'  amang  'em  all  than  formerly,  an'— 
she  paused. 

"Well?"  said  Duncan. 

."Weel,  I  can  scarce  tell  ye — maybe  I  ocht  to  ha'  written  ye." 

"Never  mind — go  on." 

"Weel,  there  was  a  cuttin'  scrape  when  they  was  drunk. 
Antonio  stabbed  ain  o'  the  Hindoos  to  death  an'  is  in  the 
county  jail  charged  wi'  manslaughter." 

Duncan  started  and  the  pipe  dropped  from  his  fingers. 
The  blood  surged  to  his  face  and  back,  leaving  it  white,  but 
he  said  nothing  for  a  moment.  It  was  a  hard  moment  for  his 
mother. 

"Yes,  you  should  have  wired  me  at  once.  I  would  have 
come  home.  I  might  have  saved  him.  Antonio!  Ortega's 
son,  and  as  fine  a  man  as  I  ever  knew  This  is  awful — we  must 
save  him." 

"I'm  afeered  it  will  do  nae  glide,"  suggested  his  mother, 
timidly.  Duncan  ignored  the  remark. 

"Antonio  a  murderer,  and  another  argument  for  the  pro 
hibition  cranks  to  flay  us  with!  Curse  Morton!  I  told  him 
not  to  hire  trash!  Curse  the  winery!  I  never  liked  Bernardi- 


THE    CLAW  79 

ni,  any  way.  I'll  see  him  about  this  tomorrow.  I  won't  stand 
for  this  sort  of  thing." 

"Bernardini  w  11  gie  us  twelve  dollars  a  ton  for  the  second 
crop  this  year — mair  than  we've  got  for  ten  year  back,"  inter 
posed  his  mother  anxiously. 

"I  don't  care  if  he  will.  I  don't  want  his  money.  I'm  going 
in  now  to  see  if  I  can  get  hold  of  Attorney  Cliffe,  or  any  of  them, 
and  see  what  we  can  do  for  Antonio."  He  strode  into  the 
house  and  Jeanie  heard  him  worrying  the  telephone.  He 
could  get  hold  of  no  one  and  came  back  in  disgust. 

"Well  I  suppose  it  doesn't  make  any  difference  tonight,  but 
I'll  go  in  first  thing  in  the  morning.  You  say  he  has  had  a 
preliminary  hearing  and  his  case  is  to  be  called  soon?" 

"No,  I  didna  say  that,"  said  Jeanie,  in  some  bewilderment  at 
being  credited  with  such  technical  knowledge,  "I  said  he'd 
been  charged  wi'  manslaughter  but  they're  no  done  wi'  him 
yet  an'  he's  bidin'  noo  in  the  jail."  Duncan  smiled  inwardly 
in  spite  of  the  situation,  at  his  mother's  ingenuousness.  Per 
haps  he  had  been  hard  on  her  but  she  should  have  let  him 
know  his  presence  might  have  made  a  vital  amount  of  dif 
ference.  He  would  hire  the  best  lawyer  he  could  lay  hold  of 
now — Cliffe  or  Kennedy — for  Antonio's  defense.  All  the  old 
associations,  his  boyhood  friendship  with  Antonio,  the  latter's 
faithfulness  as  an  employee;  most  of  all,  the  devotion  of  An 
tonio's  father,  Ortega,  to  young  Douglas,  urged  his  best  efforts 
in  the  unfortunate  man's  behalf. 

Another  motive  for  his  efforts  in  the  matter  was  a  sense  of 
responsibility  he  felt  as  an  employer.  Such  tragedies  were  not 
uncommon  on  other  places,  among  the  mixed  help  employed, 
and  provided  a  lively  business  for  the  county  officers,  the 
coroner  and  the  courts.  But  the  history  of  La  Mesa  Vineyard 
had  been  free  from  such  a  stain.  Cameron's  regime  had  been 
a  strict  one.  Strange  to  say,  the  man,  easy  with  himself  and 


80  THE     CLAW 

his  friends  and  gracious  toward  his  help,  held  a  stem  policy 
concerning  the  conduct  of  his  vineyard.  There  was  no  drunken 
ness  among  the  help  during  Cameron's  time,  Ortega  alone 
excepted.  But  Ortega  was  a  privileged  character;  his  was  the 
imaginative  temperament  which  needed  a  spree  in  order  to 
give  complete  freedom  to  his  rich  fancies  and  native  eloquence. 
Duncan  had  maintained  a  similar  rule  and  laid  the  necessity 
of  the  same  on  Morton  when  he  gave  affairs  into  his  hands. 
Morton  had  betrayed  his  trust.  He  had  set  a  demoralizing 
example  in  his  own  increasing  dissipations  and  in  the  loose 
rein  he  gave  to  his  men.  Duncan  burned  with  indignation 
that  his  reputation  would  be  made  to  suffer  as  a  result,  aside 
from  the  terrible  consequence  'induced.  He  would  throw 
himself  into  the  rescue  of  Antonio  with  all  the  resources  he 
could  command. 

Jeanie,  on  his  interrogation,  told  the  story  of  the  tragedy 
with  the  vividness  lent  by  the  shock  to  her  own  sensibilities. 
"An'  his  puir  wife  and  his  bairns — it  was  terrible  deestriss! 
Antonio  sits  in  his  cell,  they  say,  moanin'  ower  and  ower  agen, 
to  think  wha'  he  ha'  brought  on  his  hisel'  and  his  family.  But 
he  curses  Morton  and  the  Hindoo,  an'  says  if  you  had  been 
here  the  thing  would  no  ha'  happened.  He's  got  mair  sense 
if  he  is  a  Mexican,  nor  Elsie  and  her  man,  who  blame  folks  that 
ha'  befriended  them  for  things  they  bring  on  theirsel's  wi' 
their  ain  folly." 

Duncan  groaned.  He  thought  of  the  strangeness  of  his 
home-coming,  that  three  catastrophes,  each  involving  those  to 
whom  he  was  bound  with  warm  ties  of  association  and  friend 
ship,  should  await  him,  breaking  upon  his  knowledge  with 
startling  effect  and  leaving  him  shaken  with  their  significance 
of  suffering,  present  and  future. 

He  thought  to  tell  his  mother  of  Glad;  he  needed  a  woman's 
advice  and  hel  and  Glad  needed  a  woman's  sympathy  and 


THE    CLAW  81 

understanding,  but  he  realized  that  this  additional  story  of 
woe  would  be  inopportune.  Besides,  lie  was  not  sure  of  his 
mother's  co-operation.  The  case  was  one  hard  to  explain  to 
anyone,  both  from  the  delicacy  and  the  unusualness  of  it,  and 
Jeanie's  mind  was  peculiarly  impervious  to  new  ideas  and  ex 
periences.  He  decided  not  to  speak  of  the  matter — now,  at 
least. 

"Dinna  grieve  too  much/'  said  Jeanie,  after  a  time,  during 
which  they  had  sat  silent  in  their  own  thoughts.  "It's  not  a' 
bad  news  I  ha'  to  tell  ye.  The  wine  folks  are  that  gratefu'  for 
your  wark  last  simmer  that  their  plannin'  great  things  frae  ye." 

"Yes?"  said  Duncan,  absently;  his  mind  was  still  wrestling 
with  his  problems. 

"Aye!  It's  no  less  than  the  legeeslature  they've  booked  ye 
frae — Maester  Cummings,  Maester  Blythe  an'  the  rest.  I'll 
be  that  prood  to  ha'  a  son  o'  mine  in  the  service  o'  the  state 
that  I  canna'  very  easy  contain  mysel'."  It  was  seldom 
Jeanie  spoke  in  the  spirit  of  maternal  ambitions.  The  effort 
showed  her  anxiety  for  Duncan  in  the  unhappy  news  she  had 
had  to  impart,  and  he  was  touched  by  her  solicitude. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "it  would  be  very  fine.  I  heard  something 
about  it  in  town,  but  I  thought  it  was  a  josh.  They  really 
mean  it,  do  you  think?  But  they  are  awfully  deceived  as  to 
my  talents.  Arguing  a  few  senators  into  line  for  a  proposition, 
the  logic  of  which  is  as  plain  as  the  nose  on  your  face,  doesn't 
require  genius.  Besides,  it  takes  money  to  get  into  the  le^is- 
ature. 

"But  the  wine  men  have  something  they  want  to  do.  I  saw 
Blythe  a  moment  in  town  this  afternoon.  It  involves  a  regular 
position  for  the  summer  and  Blythe  hinted  at  something  else. 
I'll  go  in  and  see  him  tomorrow  and  at  the  same  time  see  about 
the  mortgage  he  holds  on  the  250  acres — it's  about  time  to 
renews  it,  if  he'll  do  it,  and  I  guess  by  his  cordiality  today,  he 


82  THE    CLAW 

will.  If  anybody  was  served  by  my  work  at  Washington  last 
summer,  Blythe  was,  personally,  so  I  guess  he  won't  turn  me 
down.  Don't  worry!"  At  the  sight  of  Jeanie's  anxious  face — 
poor  Jeanie,  who  had  been  dogged  all  her  life  with  the  spectre 
of  calamity  to  he.'  home,  her  pinched  and  care-worn  little 
face  with  its  newly  whitened  hair — he  reached  toward  her 
with  one  of  the  shy  caresses  that  passed  between  them  rarely. 

'Forget  it — everything — till  tomorrow!  Things  will  come 
out  all  right  I  hope,  both  for  ourselves  and  others.  I  guess  I'll 
step  over  now  to  the  Cumming's  for  a  few  minutes  before  going 
to  bed."  The  color  rose  into  his  cheeks.  Jeanie  affected  to 
see  nothing. 

"Oh,  aye!  '  she  said,  ".go-.  Mrs.  Cummings  called  up  juist 
this  morning  to  know  whether  you  were  coming  ha  me  today  or 
no'.  She'd  heard  it  frae  some  o'  th'  men.  She  seemed  rale 
glad." 

Duncan  went  to  his  room  and  effected  his  toilet  with  some 
pains.  Then  he  left  the  house  striking  diagonally  across  the 
large  yard,  a  collie  at  his  heels.  His  pulses  were  moving  fast 
and  he  did  not  walk  like  a  man  who  had  completed  a  three- 
thousand-mile  trip  and  had  his  soul  racked  by  these  catastro- 
phies  that  day.  He  was  going  to  see  Corinne  Cummings. 
Her  faintly-scented  note  in  his  pocket,  received  just  before 
leaving,  was  one  of  the  new  evidences  of  interest  shown 
in  him  by  his  home  folks.  Corinne's  letters  h&d.  been 
few  the  past  year.  Just  now  he  craved  the  sight  of  her  and  the 
feel  of  her  presence,  like  thirst  or  hunger,  as  a  counteractive 
from  the  sordid  tragedies  that  had  filled  his  first  hours  at  home. 


CHAPTER  TEN 

It  was  characteristic  of  Duncan,  who  had  had  no  life  of  his 
own,  that  even  his  heart  affair  should  be  in  the  nature  of  a 
substitution.  The  girl  he  lov  d  wns  the  little  miss  who  had 
enamored  Douglas  and  on  whom  the  lad  was  showering  his 
youthful  gallantries  that  fateful  day  of  the  barbecue. 

The  fathers,  warm  friends,  had  plotted  together  as  friends 
will,  foi  the  future  of  their  children  and  the  latter  seemed 
bent  on  forwarding  those  designs.  Corinne  was  mature  for 
her  age  and  already  her  girlish  coquetries  involved  Douglas 
as  their  object  with  ardent  response.  This  future  was  one 
of  the  fair  pictures  dashed  ruthlessly  out  by  young  Douglas' 
death.  It  was  not  till  years  afterward  that  the  two  fathers 
pathetically  rebuilt  timid  hopes  for  the  two  families' 
destinies,  in  the  person  of  Duncan.  That  was  when  he  was 
slowly  taking  credit  to  himself  against  great  handicap  in 
1  is  last  High  School  year.  How  great  that  handicap,  Mr. 
Cummings  was  far  more  fitted  to  realize  than  Duncan's  father. 

The  first  knowledge  that  Duncan  had  partially  succeeded 
in  some  degree  in  taking  the  place  of  Douglas  to  his  father 
came  to  the  former  from  Mr  Cummings,  at  the  time  of 
Cameron's  death.  Duncan  had  never  forgotten  the  kindness 
of  his  father's  friend  to  him;  his  delicate  and  beautiful  ser 
vice  of  sympathy.  Mr.  Cummings  had  to'd  Duncan  that 
which  had  made  his  heart  warm  toward  the  older  man  ever 
since 

"I  think  you  should  know,"  said  Mr.  Cummings,  in  his 
grave  way  as  he  bade  Duncan  goodbye  on  his  return  to  college, 
"I  think  it  might  he'p  to  staunch  your  grief,  or  in  some  part 
to  mitigate  it,  if  you  know  what  a  blessing  and  comfort  you 


84  THE    CLAW 

have  been  to  your  father."  Duncan  started  and  almost  the 
first  tears  he  had  shed  sprang  to  h  s  eyes. 

"1  know — we  all  know  how  you  have  tried,  what  a  noble 
effort  you  have  made  in  one  of  the  most  heroic  of 
causes — that  of  trying  to  substitute  in  your  self  an  object  of 
happiness  and  promise  to  your  father,  to  staunch  the  grief 
he  bore  in  the  death  of  your  brother.  It  is  my  pleasure 
to  tel  you  that  you  have  succeeded:  that  you  have,  far  beyond 
your  knowledge  or  expectation,  afforded  your  father  the  happi 
ness  and  pride  that  would  have  been  his  in  his  son.  If 
he  was  not  able  to  show  you  that  such  was  the  result,  let  me 
say  in  justice  to  him,  that  it  was  because  of  his  increasing 
infirmities.  But  just  the  day  before  he  died  he  said  to  me. 
'Cummings,  I  want  to  tell  you  that  I  have  a  happiness  few  men 
know.  That  s  my  son,  my  Duncan.  I  am  afraid  (and  it 
will  be  no  credit  to  myself)  that  this  statement  may  come  to 
you  as  a  surprise.  There  was  a  time  when  I  did  not  appreciate 
the  boy  as  now;  when  I  differentiated  between  him  and  his 
brother  in  favor  of  the  latter.  Perhaps  that  is  the  reason 
I  lost  him — Douglas.' 

"  'But  this  son,  this  one  who  has  been  left  to  me,  is  a  wonder, 
Cummings!  He  has  devoted  himself  in  utter  unselfishness 
of  heart — without  reproach  or  without  resentment  because 
I  so  long  prized  his  brother  most — he  has  devoted  himself  to 
me,  soul  and  body  and  mind  to  become  the  son  I  desired.  And 
he  is  accomplishing  it.'  That  was  the  day  he  received  the 
telegram  telling  of  your  debate  victory." 

"  'I  have  withheld  my  appreciation  too  long/  your  father 
went  on,  'I  am  going  to  write  tomorrow.  I  was  sometimes 
impatient  with  him,  I  was  impatient  with  him  just  at  the  last, 
as  he  went  away.  His  solicitude  for  me — it  ebuked  me.  You 
know  how  that  goes,  Cummings,  when  one  knows  himself  to 
be  at  fault.  But  I  shall  write  to  him  tonight.'  ' 


THE    CLAW  85 

Duncan's  head  had  dropped  on  his  hands  and  for  the  first 
time  sobs,  deep  bdoy-ra eking  sobs  broke  from  him;  he  had 
carried  the  hurt  of  his  inefficiency  long  and  the  words  of  his 
father's  farewe  1  that  day,  though  forgiven,  had  lived  and 
burrowed  deep  and  painfully  into  his  heart. 

"My  boy,  I  am  sorry!  I  thought  to  give  you  comfort — 
happiness!"  exclaimed  the  older  man,  with  solicitude.  The 
boy  seized  the  hand  on  his  shoulder,  crushed  it  between  his 
two  strong  ones: 

"Do  not  mind — tbisl"  he  panted,  "you  have  made  me  happy. 
Indeed,  you  have  given  me  the  greatest  happiness  I  have  ever 
known." 

Thereafter  a  new  relation  grew  up  between  the  older  man  and 
the  younger.  Duncan  in  great  gladness  of  heart  thought  of 
him  as  a  father  and,  presently,  by  a  vague  encouragement, 
an  unspoken  consent,  he  came  to  hope  that  the  relationship 
might  become  real.  A  great  expectation  began  to  grow  in 
his  life,  hanging  on  the  fatal  word  aif,"  the  word  on  which  hung 
all  the  pathetic  expectations  of  Dun  an's  life.  //  he  could 
make  good.  //  he  could  become  worthy  as  Douglas,  without 
doubt,  would  have  been. 

As  for  Corinne,  perhaps  it  was  not  her  fault;  she  was  an  only 
and  pampered  daughter — her  vanity  was  more  readily  impressed 
than  her  affections  and  overs  were  many.  She  looked  upon 
Duncan's  shy  ambition  with  calm  and  candid  eyes  and  laid 
upon  its  fulfilment  the  same  condition :  //  he  could  make  good 
in  a  wordly  way,  if  he  could  make  good. 

Corinne,  in  the  fullness  of  physical  charm  and  fresh  spirits, 
was  a  panacea  for  morbidness.  Her  rich,  exotic  presence 
seemed  to  float  to  meet  him  as  she  moved  down  the  long  hall 
in  answer  to  Duncan's  ring  and  to  envelop  him  in  refreshment  and 
intoxication.  There  were  no  half  tones  about  her;  her  coloring 
was  the  sort  lent  by  health,  vigor  and  luxurious  living.  Her 


86  THE    CLAW 

gowns,  after  the  manner  of  the  times,  displayed  almost  dazzling- 
ly  every  woman's  asset,  her  white  shoulders  and  splendid  pro 
portions,  the  turn  of  her  round  ankle. 

There  was  little  reserve,  little  witheld.  To  meet  the  girl 
was  like  taking  a  bouquet  of  fragrant  roses  to  one's  self,  or 
filling  the  eye  with  a  gorgeous  view.  It  was  perhaps  this 
generosity,  this  boldness  of  presence,  that  constituted  the 
girl's  attraction  to  Duncan,  himself  the  most  shy,  and  self 
deprecative  of  lovers.  He  needed  to  have  a  woman  come 
more  than  half  way.  That  she  could  withdraw,  disconcertingly 
and  completely,  when  whim  seized  her,  was  equally  true  and 
a  thing  for  admiration. 

She  greeted  him  with  the  utmost  pleasure.  Her  voice  hold 
a  note  that  made  his  blood  surge. 

"Then  you  are  in— I  was  afraid  I  might  find  you  away," 
said  Duncan,  modestly.  A  great  contentment  took  hold  of 
Mm  as  she  established  him  in  her  father's  favorite  chair  and 
chose  one  in  flattering  proximity  beneath  the  electrolier  where 
the  light  fell  dazzingly  upon  the  bronze  of  her  high  coiled  hair. 

"We  had  an  engagement,  but  I  sent  poor  Mutter  along,  for 
I  was  sure  you  would  call.  No,"  she  demurred  at  his  jesture 
of  expostulation.  "You  wouldn't  have  me  miss  a  call  from  such 
a  distinguished  visitor — the  genuis  known  as  'the  coming  man.'  ' 
She  laughed  the  full  uncurbed  laugh  that,  again,  was  like  her 
self. 

"Oh,  you  are  just  the  same  as  ever — so  modest  that  you 
can't  conceive  of  the  honors  that  are  on  your  horizon.  Why 
you're  the  most  talked  of  man  in  Riverdale.  Do  you  know 
that?" 

"If  I  am,  then  Riverdale  hasn't  much  to  talk  about,"  said 
Duncan,  but  her  words  giatified  him.  The  confirmation  of 
his  new  popularity  from  her  lips  meant  more  than  from  any 
other.  She  was  included  among  his  new  admirers,  her  words 


THE    CLAW  87 

showed  that,  and  she  courted  his  attentions — had  expected 
his  call  th  s  first  night.  He  recalled  her  former  indifference 
and  his  heart  beat  with  new  hope  and  happiness.  Mr.  Cum- 
mings,  pausing  at  the  door  of  the  drawing-room,  begged  en 
trance. 

"Well,  stranger,  hello —  '  he  greeted,  "may  I  come  in  and 
shake  hands  with  this  big  boy?  How's  the  prodigal  from  the 
far  country?"  He  gave  Duncan  a  hand  of  real  affection. 
"You're  looking  fine — just  fine!  Guess  the  east  agrees  with 
you.  It  ought  to — you've  been  making  good  and  making 
history  both.  Congratulation!" 

The  chat  flowed  happily,  the  graver  talk  of  her  father  in 
terrupted  with  delightful  and  irrelevent  comments  by  Corinne. 
Mrs.  Cummings  returned  in  her  coupe  early  from  her  evening 
engagement  and  joined  them.  Her  greeting  was  fully  as  cordial 
and  somewhat  more  eflusive  than  that  of  the  others.  The 
parents  excused  themselves  shortly  and  left  the  two  alone. 
It  was  late  when  Duncan  said  goodnight.  He  made  the  short 
distance  between  the  girl's  house  and  his  own  with  feet  that 
did  not  feel  the  ground.  Ronald,  his  dog,  had  difficulty 
in  keeping  pace  with  him  and  at  the  same  time  retaining  the 
dignity  that  belongs  to  collies. 

Duncan  had  forgotten  in  the  glamor  of  the  girl's  renewed 
companionship  the  troubles  that  vexed  him,  Glad,  on  her 
fevered  bed,  Morton,  going  to  perdition  fast,  and  Antonio 
in  his  cell.  Once,  on  the  way  over,  the  idea  had  occurred  to 
him  to  take  Glad's  troubles  to  Corinne  and  her  mother.  But 
with  the  first  glimpse  of  Corinne  coming  down  the  hall  to 
greet  him  the  idea  vanished  of  itself.  What  did  this  charming 
vision  of  well-being  and  happiness  have  to  do  with  C lad's 
pitiful  tragedy? 

Yet  he  felt  subtly  reproached.  To-morrow  lie  would 
settle  on  some  conclusion  of  the  matter.  To-morrow  he  would 


88  THE    CLAW 

think  of  some  efficient  person  he  could  trust  with  Glad's  story. 
Why,  to  be  sure, — Marlinee!  Why  hadn't  he  thought  of  Mar- 
linee  before.  Confound  it,  he  had  forgotten  her,  and  he  was 
right  there  in  the  Journal  office,  too.  Where  was  she  then?— 
out  on  her  "beat"  no  doubt.  And  he  never  even  asked  for 
her.  To  be  sure,  she  would  be  just  the  one,  the  only  one,  in 
fact.  He  would  feel  no  delicacy  in  presenting  Glad's  case  to 
Marlinee,  who,  as  a  newspaper  woman,  was  enured  to  all 
things.  Bless  her  heart — he  wanted  to  see  her  too! 

Duncan  dreamed  of  Corinne  and  her  fragrant  presence  en- 
ve'oped  him  intoxicatingly,  as  in  reality.  Then  he  dreamed 
of  Marlinee.  He  apoligized  to  her  profoundly  for  his  over 
sight  in  forgetting  her.  Marlinee  listened  haughtily,  pushing 
out  her  little  chin  till  a  dimple  that  belonged  there  was  wholly 
lost.  Then  the  dimple  suddenly  sprang  back  to  its  place — 
she  made  up  an  insolent  little  face  and  was  gone. 


CHAPTER  XI 

All  his  life  Duncan  had  been  conscious  of  a  separation  be 
tween  himself  and  a  large  part  of  mankind  as  represented  in 
his  acquaintance.  That  separation  was  occasioned  by  the 
industry  in  which  his  father  was  engaged.  From  the  time  of 
his  earliest  recollections  the  neighborhood  had  been  divided 
into  two  elements:  his  father's  friends — the  families  engaged 
in  the  wine  industry,  or  favorable  to  it — and  the  "temperance 
folks." 

As  a  child,  he  felt  the  subtle  antagonism  of  opposing  senti 
ment.  It  affected  his  relations  at  school,  the  friendship  of 
some  of  his  companions.  As  early  as  seven  he  learned  his 
classification  when  the  first  temperance  agitation  began  in 
the  little  viticultural  community.  A  "Band  of  Hope"  was 
organized  in  the  neighborhood  which  the  enthusiasm  of  the 
organizer  painted  as  a  most  alluring  prospect.  Duncan, 
with  his  boy  friends,  were  candidates  for  membership  and 
presented  themselves,  together  with  other  young  Hopes  on 
the  day  of  organization.  But  a  whispered  taunt  from  a  boy 
on  the  seat  behind  him  blighted  Duncan's  ambitions  and  sent 
him  home,  his  cheeks  burning  with  indignation. 

"Hum!"  sniffed  the  boy,  "  You  can't  belong  to  th'  Band  of 
Hope.  Your  father  grows  wine!" 

It  was  a  wholly  new  idea,  a  fact  clothed  in  the  garb  of  an 
accusation.  Shortly  thereafter  the  ambitious  new  Hopers 
in  the  zeal  of  their  campa'gn  simplified  the  idea  with  a  vigor 
that  amounted  to  persecution  of  the  sens' tive  child. 

"Your  father's  a  wicked  man.  He  helps  to  make  drunkards, 
and  drunkards  go  to  Hell.' 

It  was  an  argument  Duncan  was  not  prepared  to  stand  for 
and  he  fought  it  out  with  his  two  sturdy  fists,  routing  the 


90  THE     CLAW 

entire  band.  Incidentally  the  circumstance  was  typical  of  the 
fate  of  the  liquor  opponents  for  many  years. 

Fists  could  route  opponents  but  not  'deas  and  the  idea  of 
the  culpability  of  the  w  ne  grape  grower  persisted  in  the  minds 
of  many  in  the  community.  The  lad  however,  was  fortified 
a  ainst  the  sentiment  by  his  father's  disposal  of  the  matter, 
when  the  subject  was  brought  to  his  attent'on.  The  attitude 
of  the  latter  was  one  of  large  charity  toward  the  reformers  as 
men  and  women  possessed  of  an  irritating  but  harmless  obses 
sion.  The  doctrine  of  temperance  as  opposed  to  prohibition 
was  expounded  in  Cameron's  best  style  together  with  the 
absurdity  of  the  latter.  His  logic  seemed  unanswerable. 

The  result  of  his  father's  counsel  was  to  establish  in  the  boy 
an  attitude  of  superio  ity  toward  his  persecuters,  mingled  with 
condescension,  but  the  consciousness  of  his  neighbor's  criti 
cism  emphasized  his  natural  reserve.  His  new  judgments 
worked  for  himself  a  hardship  also,  when  some  of  his  most 
admired  friends  happened  to  belong  to  the  unfortunate  and 
inferior  class.  This  was  the  case  with  Marlinee. 

Marlinee  was  one  of  Duncan's  few  real  freinds.  She  was 
his  neighbor — his  chum.  On  her  pony  she  galloped  to  school 
by  his  side  every  day  of  the  High  School  year  and  when  the 
weather  was  bad  it  was  only  courtesy  to  take  her 
into  the  shelter  of  the  curtained  family  phaeton.  Such  inti 
macy  bred  a  fine  comradeship,  yet  Marlinee  was  amoijg  the 
Philistines.  For  no  apparent  reason  than  perversity,  Marlinee, 
uninfluenced  by  family — for  she  had  no  family — nor  apparently 
by  convictions,  for  how  could  a  girl  of  sixteen  have  acquired 
such  a  grotesque  thing  as  convictions — Marlinee  had  taken 
her  stand  among  the  reformers,  th?  crank;.  In  coming  into 
possession  of  a  little  vineyard  property  left  her  by  a  relative 
in  Cameron's  neighbrohood,  she  had  ordered  the  healthy, 


THE    CLAW  91 

prosperous    vines    pulled    out    and,    after  profound  consider 
ation,  had  planted  the  land  to  alfalfa. 

It  was  a  body  blow  to  friendship  and  Marlinee  knew  it. 
She  knew  it  and  she  pushed  up  her  little  chin  till  the  dimple  in 
it  was  quite  lost  and  made  her  red  mouth  into  a  grim  line  as 
when  combatting  physical  pain.  Marlinee  had  the  blood  of 
the  martyrs.  She  drew  her  moral  hardihood  from  her  father 
and  the  dimple  from  her  mother. 

Her  father  she  had  never  seen,  but  she  knew  him  to  have 
been  a  man  of  convictions  and  convictions  make  for  heroism. 
He  had  graduated  at  Harvard  and  at  once  took  his  classical 
learning  and  his  convictions  to  the  poor  whites  of  the  Tennessee 
mountains.  Later  he  went  to  western  Kansas.  He  took  with 
him  his  young  wife.  She  was  one  of  Memphis'  blue-blood 
families  How  she  came  to  fall  in  love  with  a  missionary 
minister  was  a  mystery,  but  perhaps  it  was  the  Harvard  man 
she  loved.  Marlinee  remembered  her  wonderful  star-eyed 
mother.  Her  father  had  died  for  his  conv  ctions — shot  to 
death  by  the  lawless  element  in  the  little  western  town  that 
he  had  the  temerity  to  oppose.  Marlinee 's  mother  had  never 
felt  right  toward  Providence  afterward.  She  had  always 
thought  that  Marlinee's  father  was  worth  all  the  souls  in  western 
Kansas  that  he  had  tried  to  save. 

Marlinee's  family  appeared  a  short-lived  one.  While  in 
Kansas  her  mother's  people,  few  in  the  beginning,  faded  out. 
They  had  been  gently  brought  up  and  the  war  and  the  after 
struggle  for  existence  precipitated  by  it,  had  been  too  much 
for  them  It  was  a  distant  relative  of  Marlinee's  father  who 
took  compassion  on  the  girl,  almost  the  only  survivor  of  her 
line  He  was  an  eccentric  o  d  bachelor  and  remembered  her 
when  he  was  dying  with  the  small  wealth  he  had  accumulated 
in  his  many  California  experiments.  WTith  an  ancient  mammy 
who  had  come1,  a  young  maid,  from  Tennessee  with  Marlinoe's 


92  THE     CLAW 

mother,  she  made  her  home  on  the  vineyard  of  the  charitable 
bachelor  and  blessed  him  for  his  charity. 

Marlinee  was  one  of  hose  women  so  baffling  to  men,  wholly 
and  satisfyingly  feminine  from  the  crown  of  her  head  to  the 
sole  of  her  natty  feet,  possessed  of  the  seductiveness  of  the 
sex  that  says  to  the  mascul  ne,  "I  am  a  woman  and  your 
natural  conquest."  Marlinee  was  apt,  by  a  sudden  flash  of 
spirit,  a  challenge  of  wit,  to  frustrate  omplacency  and  reveal 
a  vigorous  and  independent  mind  that  demanded  more  than 
the  ordinary  masculine  blandishments  for  its  subjugation. 
In  other  words,  Marlinee  had  that  discomforting  possession, 
a  mind  of  he  own. 

Duncan  had  never  practised  masculine  bland' shments  on 
Marlinee.  Her  vigorous  character  had  a  tonic  effect  upon  him, 
and  her  unaffectedness  expelled  his  diffidence.  He  was  at 
home  with  her  and  at  his  best.  He  gave  her  his  confidence. 
At  least  he  gave  her  more  than  he  gave  any  other  human 
creature 

It  was  not  much.  Duncan  was  at  no  time  communica 
tive.  But  the  girl  knew  him,  through  and  through,  by  the 
quick  perception  of  a  woman.  She  stood  in  his  life  for  a  cer 
tain  things  of  which  he  had  been  deprived.  He  had  had  little 
fellowship  with  other  boys;  he  had  had  no  boyhood  of  his 
own.  His  life  had  been  wholly  different  from  that  of  the  normal 
lad.  He  felt  old  and  constrained  at  the  High  School  with  the 
exuberant  youth  of  his  own  age,  their  young  conceits  and 
enthusiasms.  He  was  lost  with  shyness  in  the  presence  of 
most  girls.  Marlinee's  was  to  him  both  a  boy's  and  girl's 
companionship,  a  sister's — almost  a  mother's.  Her  solicitudes, 
shaken  off  by  him  with  affected  scorn,  her  wise  counsels — the 
counsels  of  sixteen — her  scoldings,  were  all  prized  by  him. 
Then,  too,  she  furnished  opportunity  of  return  in  all  the  ways 
she  stood  for  him :  opportunity  for  a  brother's  advice  and  bully- 


THE    CLAW  93 

ing — there  were  occasions  when  Marlinee  would  take  bullying 
• — but  invariably  with  a  meekness  of  spirit  that  caused  the  pleas 
ure  of  the  bullier  to  be  largely  lost. 

He  was  encouraged  to  practice  the  social  arts  upon  her.  In 
deed,  never  in  her  most  independent  moments  did  Marlinee 
allow  Duncan  to  forget  the  proper  attentions  due  the  feminine 
sex.  She  was  most  punctilious  about  these  things.  It  was 
a  part  of  her  ideals  and  her  training  of  Duncan.  Theirs 
was  one  of  those  delightful  friendships  in  which  the  interchange 
was  perfect;  one  which  can  exist  at  no  time  except  the  period 
of  the  boy  and  gir.  age — the  age  of  adolescence  when  sex  con 
sciousness  is  still  dormant,  or  submerged  in  the  confusing  sen 
sations  of  mental  and  physical  awakening  and  even  then  its 
duration  must  necessarily  be  short.  Each  offered  to  the  other, 
at  that  period,  a  complete  antithesis,  Duncan's  slow  but  solid 
mentality  checkmating  Marlinee's  delicacy,  her  quick  brain 
in  which  the  intuitions  of  a  woman  were  more  than  normally 
developed. 

But  one  shadow  lay  between  them:  their  differeing  convic 
tions.  In  Marlinee's  breast  it  constituted  a  deep  hurt,  a  judge 
ment  of  Duncan,  the  only  reservation  in  her  complete  liking 
of  him,  but  an  insurmountable  and  ineradicable  one.  In  Dun 
can's  mind  th  feeling  was  one  of  irritation,  disappointment: 
Marlinee,  a  girl  of  intellect  and  breeding,  deliberately  taking 
her  place  among  the  inferior,  the  narrow  minded — the  "cranks." 
It  was  inexplicable,  it  was  maddening,  but  there  wras  no  help 
for  it.  They  had  had  one  encounter  that  b  gan  wit 'i  a  sincere 
purpose  on  the  part  of  each  to  show  the  others  his  error.  It 
ended  with  a  flash  of  temper  and  tears  on  the  part  of  Marlinee, 
self  disgust  with  Duncan,  apologies  and  a  permanent  truce  by 
both.  But  the  hurt  and  the  estrangement  was  there. 

Duncan  had  not  approved  of  Marlinee's  newspaper  venture, 
though  she  had  eventually  persuaded  him  that  a  girl  \vho  has 


94  THE    CLAW 

but  an  eight  acre  alfalfa  ranch  and  no  family  has  need  to  look 
after  her  future.  Duncan  said,  '  Girls  get  married."  Marli- 
nee  answered  that  they  married  if  the  right  men  asked  them. 
It  was  a  new  idea  to  Duncan.  He  had  never  thought  o  there 
being  a  dependent  clause  in  the  situation.  But  it  was  like 
Marlinee  to  have  created  one.  Looking  at  it  that  way  he  con 
sented,  thoug  reluctantly,  to  Marlinee's  going  into  the  Journal 
office  in  which  he  had  a  share.  In  fact  he  got  his  father  to 
reserve  the  place  for  her. 

Marlinee  "did"  society  on  the  paper.  The  Journal  had  the 
prestige  of  the  oldest  sheet  in  town  and  the  most  unfortunate. 
Cameron  had  created  it  in  the  first  year  of  his  arrival.  It 
dated  back  to  the  time  when  the  town  consisted  of  a  dozen 
houses  set  on  a  burning  plain — and  expectations.  It  had  had 
half  a  dozen  owners  in  as  many  years.  Cameron  was  but 
one  who  had  invested  good  money  in  the  ill  starred  organ  and 
lost  it.  But  the  paper  continued  and  the  people  continued 
to  take  the  paper.  If  the  last  hopeful  editor,  with  a  small 
wad  to  lose,  failed,  the  residents  of  Riverdale  clubbed 
together  and  the  evening  Journal  became  a  co-operative 
sheet,  one  of  the  town's  monuments. 

Marl'nee  took  the  society  editor's  desk.  She  was  small, 
she  was  new,  she  was  practically  unknown.  The  city  editor 
was  skeptical.  A  smart,  new,  morning  paper  had  broken  into 
the  business  recently  with  up-to-date  type  and  a  Sunday  edi 
tion.  The  new  sheet  had  "Society"  coming  it  way.  But 
Marlinee  made  good. 


CHAPTER  XII 

Duncan  was  up  at  five  in  the  morning.  Before  he  left 
for  town,  at  nine,  he  practically  had  been  over  the  whole  place. 
With.  Morton  in  the  machine  beside  him  he  had  inspected  each 
vineyard  and  by  questions  and  observations,  assisted  by  his 
thorough  knowledge  of  every  detail  of  the  industry,  he  had 
caught  up  the  threads  of  the  enterprise  again,  i  ot  wholly  re 
leased  during  his  absence.  With  the  admirable  efficiency  of 
the  specializing  mind  that  assimilates  ideas  like  a  well  working 
engine,  Duncan  listened  to  the  answer  of  one  question  while 
his  mind  formed  the  next  one,  or  jumped  ahead  to  a  new  one 
suggested  by  his  quick  perception  of  some  feature  in  the  scene 
before  him. 

Morton  replied  to  Dunca's  interrogations  with  the  inward 
admiration  he  felt  for  his  young  employer,  coupled  with  per 
sonal  qualms.  He  was  perfectly  aware  of  his  increasing  in- 
competency.  He  had  been  to  some  extent  able  to  hide  his 
short  comings  from  Duncan's  mother,  to  cover  some  of  the 
mistakes  and  neglect  occasioned  by  his  irresponsible  days. 
But  with  "Duncan  it  was  different.  Some  of  his  questions 
embarrassed  him  and  his  first  greeting  was  not  cheerful. 

"Well,  Morton  there's  been  some  pretty  bad  work  going 
on  here.  I'm  sick  about  Antonio.  It  was  all  wrong,  Morton. 
You  knew  it  was  strictly  against  my  principles — allowing 
the  help  to  booze."  Of  Morton's  own  habits,  Duncan  said 
nothing.  He  intended  to  follow  the  policy  indicated  to  his 
mother.  It  was  possible  that  Morton,  with  his  unspoken 
moral  support,  might  brace  up.  If  necessary,  he  would  give 
him  a  vacation  and  help  him  to  get  away  for  a  few  months 
to  new  surroundings  where  the  start  toward  reform  might  be 
made  easier. 


96  THE    CLAW 

In  town  Duncan  devoted  himself  first  to  Glad's  cause.  He 
called  up  the  hospital  and  asked  about  her.  She  was  '  'doing 
as  well  as  could  be  expected  under  the  circumstances."  The 
reply  was  most  enlightening  and  he  went  to  Doctor  Elliot's 
office.  The  Doctor  was  his  family  physician.  He  knew 
Duncan's  family  as  none  but  the  family  physician  does,  and 
he  was  extremely  fond  of  Duncan.  The  latter  found  it  difficult 
to  turn  the  conversation  from  the  personal — the  Doctor's 
interested  inquiries  about  his  and  his  mother's  welfare — to 
the  subject  of  Glad,  and  still  greater  difficulty  in  introducing 
the  subject  without  embarrassment.  But  his  anxiety  abbetted 
him  and  he  succeeded  fairly  well. 

"Hum,"  grunted  the  Doctor,  "So  that  was  your  quixotic 
adventure.  Well — it's  a  good  thing  there's  somebody  to 
befriend  the  girl,  though  the  biggest  end  of  her  trouble  is  over — 
her  physical  state  and  the  mental  excitement  occasioned  by 
your  visit."  Duncan  looked  start  ed. 

"Don't  worry,  it's  her  salvation  you  know.  Funny  civili 
zation  ours,"  he  mused,  "that  a  natural  thing  like  creation 
should  cause  such  a  furore — consternation  in  society,  brain 
storm  for  the  mother,  a  poor  little  embryo  man  deprived  of 
his  privilege  of  becoming  a  citizen.  Might  have  made  a  bully 
one  too,  after  all.  And  all  over  a  natural  phenomenon  called 
'life.'  Funny,  isn't  it?"  Duncan  was  offended  by  his  face- 
tiousness.  He  failed  to  appreciate  the  standpoint  of  the 
professional  mind. 

"This  wasn't  nature,"  he  said  bluntly.  "It  was  a  frightful 
forced  thing.  The  man  made  her  drunk.  It  happened  in 
your  fine  new  Parisian  here."  The  Doctor  raised  his  eyebrows. 

"So?— Well!  That's  the  fourth  case  of  the  kind  that's 
come  to  us  lately  from  the  same  source.  Old  Drury — M.  D. — 
you  know  Drury — the  same  that  had  trouble  about  his  state 
license  last  year?  Drury  was  sent  up  last  week  for  helping 


THE    CLAW  97 

a  victim  of  the  Parisian  out  of  her  troubles.  It's  devilish — 
this  smart  cafe  business!  And  this  little  girl — as  you  say- 
she's  charming,  and  from  the  best  sort,  apparently." 

"How  is  she  now?"  asked  Duncan,  anxiously. 

"Oh,  she's  all  right — physically,  I  mean.  Or  will  be,  soon. 
The  trouble  with  her  kind  is  to  help  her  get  back  into  life  again. 
That's  what  1  say — society,  for  being  the  product  of  civiliza 
tion  that  it  is,  is  about  the  most  uncivilized  and  brutal  institu 
tion  going.  It's  an  abnormal,  distorted  thing,  and  its  judg 
ments  are  distorted.  This  little  creature — what's  she  done? 
She's  fulfilled  the  law  of  her  nature — the  greatest  law  of  the 
universe— procreation.  But  because  she  fulfilled  it  without 
having  a  few  words  indorsed  by  society  and  the  law  said,  she 
is  damned,  and  the  innocent  human  atom  that  was  within  her. 
There  were  just  two  things  for  her  to  do — commit  murder 
and  be  received  back  grudgingly,  perhaps,  some  day,  by  this 
same  pious  society,  or  let  nature  have  its  way,  and  bring  forth 
a  child  to  the  same  damnation  to  which  she  seemed  doomed, 
and  consign  herself  to  a  woman's  perdition — chattel  to  all 
men's  passions.  She  is  partly,  possibly,  saved  by  this  revul 
sion  or  sacrifice  of  nature.  Civilization — isn't  it?  What  do 
you  suppose  is  the  cost  of  loss  to  this  nation  yearly  in  lives 
that  society,  by  its  attitude  says  mustn't  live?  And  many 
of  these  children,  if  they  had  been  let  to  live  in  decency  and 
approbation  would  make  as  good  citizens  as  anybody  else. 

"Oh,  I'm  not  preaching  immorality  or  promiscuousness, 
but  I'm  a  man  who  is  interested  in  life — human  life — and  it 
makes  me  sick  to  think  of  such  nonsensical  waste!" 

Duncan  had  listened  quietly  with  immense  interest  in  the 
unusual  outburst  coming  from  the  curt,  professional  man, 
who  ordinarily  kept  his  own  counsel.  It  was  a  line  of  thought, 
like. many  others  that  his  mind  had  never  followed.  To  his 


98  THE    CLAW 

own  surprise  and  to  the  Doctor's  he  answered  quickly  and  with 
spirit. 

"I  thought  it  was  'selection'  you  scientific  men  were  interested 
in,  the  improvement,  not  the  increase  of  the  species.  The 
attitude  of  society,  as  you  say,  is  deadly  toward  a  girl  like  Glad, 
but  it  constitutes  humanity's  safe  guard.  Remove  it,  and 
brutes  like  the  one  in  this  case  will  have  their  way  and  the  world 
will  be  populated  with  degenerates."  The  Doctor  started, 
eyed  Duncan  critically  and  laughed.  He  was  immensely 
pleased  by  the  boy's  unlocked  for  keeness  and  readiness  at 
retort.  It  was  something  new  in  him,  since  he  had  last  known 
him. 

"Very  good  young  man.  You  use  your  brains  to  some 
advantage.  Guess  Yale  has  done  something  for  you.  Well, 
come  in  again — "  as  Duncan  rose  to  go.  "Any  message  you 
want  me  to  take  to  the  little  girl?  She  can't  see  anybody  to 
day,  but  after  that  come  whenever  you  want  to.  She'll  need 
you." 

From  the  Doctoi's  office  Duncan  went  to  the  courthouse, 
to  seek  the  District  Attorney  for  permission  to  visit  Antonio. 
He  wanted  to  talk  to  him  before  consulting  his  lawyer,  and 
learn  from  his  own  lips  of  the  tragedy. 

At  the  jail  he  was  shown  into  Antonio's  cell.  The  man, 
sitting  listlessly  on  his  cot,  staring  into  space,  started  at  the 
sound  of  a  visitor.  At  sight  of  Duncan  he  gave  a  peculiar  cry 
like  that  of  a  hurt  dog  and  fell  on  his  knees  before  him,  hugging 
his  legs,  sobbing,  and  gazing  at  him  with  streaming  face; 
then  falling  again  upon  him  with  heart  rending  sobs.  He  had 
shown  no  emotion  before,  since  his  arrest,  not  even  in  the 
presence  of  his  wife  and  children.  In  court,  undergoing  his 
preliminary  examination,  he  had  presented  a  wholly  stolid 
attitude,  a  stoicism  that  had  the  semblance  of  indifference. 
Duncan  was  nearly  unmanned  by  the  sight.  The  utter  aban- 


THE    CLAW  99 

donment  of  the  strong  and  self  contained  man  -was  appalling. 

"Antonio!"  He  raised  the  Mexican  to  his  feet.  "This 
is  terrible  to  find  you  here!"  Antonio  felt  his  words  a  rebuke 
and  fell  away  from  him,  sinking  down  on  the  edge  of  his  cot, 
his  face  in  his  hands,  the  tears  falling  between  his  fingers. 

"Ah,  no — no — don't  say  that,  Duncan,  my  friend — my  one 
friend!  I  didn't  do  it.  I  didn't  do  it — oh  no — not  I,  not  I 
myself."  Duncan  was  much  moved. 

"No,  I  didn't  mean  that.  I  wasn't  blaming  you.  I  know 
all  about  it.  It's  God's  pity,  Antonio!  I'd  give^anything*  I 
possess  to  have  been  here.  I  might  have  hindered,  I  might 
have  prevented  this  awful  business!" 

"Ah!"  the  man  groaned  an  agonized  assent,  but  he  was  bent 
yet  on  justification  in  the  eyes  of  his  friend.  "They  say  I 
did  it.  They've  proved  I  did  it — by  the  knife — by  the  blood 
upon  me,"  he  shivered,  "but  in  the  name  of  the  Holy  Mary, 
Duncan,  I  never  knew  it.  I  swear  I  never  knew  it!  I  never 
meant  to.  It  was  the  booze! 

"Why  I'd  have  been  a  fool  to  have  done  it.  Sure  I  hated 
the  Hindoos.  They  cut  our  wages.  Morton  hired  'em  and 
let  us — most  of  us — go,  who  had  worked  for  you  and  your  father 
before  you.  He  threatened  to  fire  me.  But  even  so  I  wouldn't 
have  done  it — murder  a  man!  I  am  a  good  man — am  I  not? 
I  belong  to  father  Felix's  church.  I  know  the  holy  command 
ments:  Thou  shalt  not  kill' — and  he  that  kills  is  damned!" 
He  shuddered.  ".  have  a  family.  Would  I  have  done  that? 
No,  I  couldn't  have  done  such  a  thing,  if  I'd  been  sober — to 
kill  a  man!"  at  every  utterance  of  the  word  he  hestitated, 
shivering  with  a  dark  horror  in  his  face.  "It  was  the  booze — 
Maria  Madrel  It  was  the  booze!"  His  head  fell  in  his  hands 
again  and  he  groaned  as  in  physical  pain. 

"But  Antonio — you  were  a  sober  man,  before  I  went  away, 
and  for  years  after  you  married,  you  were  steady  and  temper- 


100  THE    CLAW 

ate.     You  were  saving  money.     How  did  you  come  to  take 
to   the   stuff  again?" 

Antonio  groaned.  "Ah,  I  don't  know.  I  was  a  fool.  I 
was  doing  well.  I  didn't  want  it  except  when  I  went  to  town 
and  that  wasn't  often.  Morton  got  the  wine  from  Ber- 
nardini's — said  there  was  no  reason  why  we  shouldn't  have  it 
on  occasions,  with  it  right  handy  there.  He  kept  it  in  the  old 
drying  shed,  across  from  the  winery,  and  we  dr?,nk  it  there." 

"Sold  it  to  you?" 

"Sold  it  to  all  the  help  'round  about.  Yes,  I  know  it  was 
against  the  law,  but  he  said,  'Damn  the  law!'  and  he  urged 
our  patronage — mine  especially;  intimated  that  it  went  with 
my  holding  the  job.  Then  I  was  sore  too,  about  the  new  men, 
and  he  threatening  to  fire  me,  and  I  took  to  drinking — one 
wants  the  booze  when  he  has  anything  here.11  Antonio  put 
his  hand  to  his  heart  with  a  pathetic  gesture. 

"So  it  happened  there  one  night,  or  coming  home — the 
Hindoos  and  Garcia  and  some  of  the  others  and  me.  I  don't 
know  what  started  it — the  booze — just  the  booze. 

"The  others  were  ahead  and  we  got  to  quarreling,  I  suppose. 
He  was  drunk,  too,  I  reckon,  though  his  friends  swear  he  wasn't. 
And  I  knifed  him — at  least,!  must  have.  The  knife  was  found 
beside  him  and  I  had  his  blood  on  me."  He  was  talking  calmly 
again,  stolidly,  his  face  fallen  into  the  indifferent  lines  that 
had  impressed  the  judge  unfavorably. 

"But  any  fool  would  know  I  did'nt  do  it  apurpose.  I  was 
lying  in  the  little  ditch  you  know,  a  yard  on,  dead  to  the  world, 
when  the  sheriff  came.  I  didn't  know  anything  till  they  put 
me  in  the  tank  here."  Duncan  heard  the  man's  droning  story 
almost  without  listening.  It  was  the  stale  story  of  a  Mexican 
cutting  affair  that  invariably  netted  the  undertaker  a  corpse, 
the  penitentary  a  "lifer"  and  the  county  one  more  indigent 
family. 


THE     CLAW  101 

Hut  now  it  was  Antonio  that  was  telling  the  story,  Antonio 
who,  having  run  through,  his  larking  days  when  he  drank  with 
the  best,  took  him  a  wife — one  of  the  prettiest  of  the  young 
senonlas  of  the  vine-yard — and  at  the  samo  time,  denying  his 
passionate  southern  nature  that  takes  to  drink  as  to  water, 
became  a  steady,  reliable  hand,  one  of  the  best  on  the  place, 
his  excesses  confined  to  the  end  of  grape  picking  time.  With 
this  boy  he  had  played,  had  measured  all  his  young  prowess 
and  found  him  a  worthy  opponent.  He  had  left  him 
one  year  ago  a  clean,  open  faced,  sober  man.  He  found  him 
today  in  this  stifling  cell,  already  the  look  of  a  criminal  upon 
him.  He  sat  in  moody  reflections,  his  shoulders  drooping,  his 
mouth  set  in  sullen  lines,  his  eyes  holding  an  abandoned  ex 
pression.  He  looked  ten  years  older  than  his  age.  With  a 
wrench  of  the  heart,  Duncan  recalled  the  girl  he  had  sat  with 
the  afternoon  before  in  her  shabby  room  in  the  cheap  board 
ing  house—so  like,  in  her  frightful  transfiguration  to  this  man. 
He  started.  Antonio  was  saying: 

et-Ifs  an  awful  thing  to  forget  yourselfl  It's  an  awful  thing 
to  take  a  thing  that  makes  you  forget^ 

The  words  seemed  but  an  echo  of  the  anguished  cry  of  the 
ravished  girl  the  preceding  day. 

Antonio  happily  had  remembered  Duncan's  lawyer.  He 
had  retained  him  at  a  price  that  with  one  swoop  wiped  out 
his  little  savings,  and  much  more.  Duncan  sought  him. 
He  would  do  his  best,  but  Duncan  knew  how  hard  it  was 
to  clear  a  Mexican.  The  prejudices  were  against  him,  be 
sides,  juries  showed  no  leniency  nowadays  toward  booze 
victims.  The  man  who  killed  when  he  was  drunk  was  held 
as  guilty  as  tic  man  who  killed  when  he  was  sober.  Dun 
can  winced. 

''That's  awful,''  he  said.  "Look  at  this  case.  Here's  a 
man  as  steady  as  any  in  the  country."  The  lawyer  interrupted 


102  THE    CLAW 

skeptically:  "Never  saw  a  cholo  that  wouldn't  booze,"  he  said. 

"Well,  Antonio  isn't  a  cbolo.  He's  in  another  class  alto 
gether,"  said  Duncan.  "He  takes  his  glass  like  the  rest  of 
us,  but  he's  no  bgozer  and  hasn't  been  for  years.  But  in  my 
absence  my  man,  Morton,  began  boozing  himself,  at  a  one- 
horse  joint  by  my  place  that  calls  itself  a  winery.  He  conceived 
a  little  boot-legging  business  to  catch  a  few  pennies  that  might 
get  to  town  and  solicited  my  men's  patronage  with  the  hint  that 
it  would  look  to  the  keeping  of  their  jobs.  Antonio  got  drunk, 
fighting  drunk,  and  killed  this  Hindoo  in  a  cutting  fray — I 
guess  the  testimony  will  show  that  the  Hindoo  had  a  knife,  too. 
Has  Antonio  to  spend  the  rest  of  his  life  in  jail  for 
this  thing  and  his  little  family  go  on  the  county?" 

"Its  the  law.  You  can't  let  men  kill  each  other  when  they're 
drunk  any  more  than  when  they're  sober.  The  result  is  just 
the  same — there's  a  dead  one."  Duncan  reached  for  his  hat: 

"Well,  what's  to  be  done  about  it?" 

"I  don't  know,  my  boy,"  said  the  lawyer,  rising  at  the  same 
time  and  walking  to  the  door  with  him,  "I  don't  know  unless 
you  and  your  friends  of  the  liquor  industry  go  out  of  business — 
unless  we  let  the  prohibitionists  take  the  state."  Duncan 
shot  a  challenging  look  at  him.  Was  he  joshing  or  was  this 
a  home  thrust  from  a  friend? 

"You  don't  mean  that?"  he  said  interrogatively.  The 
attorney  struck  a  match,  lighted  a  cigar  and  took  a  delicate 
whiff.  He  opened  the  door  to  let  Duncan  out. 

"Oh,  no,"  he  said,  dryly,  "I  suppose  that  wouldn't  be  prac 
tical.  Besides  it  would  eliminate  some  of  our  business." 

With  his  altruistic  objects  of  interest  attended  to,  Duncan 
sought  those  of  his  own.  The  morning  had  been  a  hard  one 
and  the  relish  of  anticipation  aroused  by  Blythe's  suggestions 
had  been  lost  in  the  incidents  of  the  past  hour.  The  Doctor's 
words  had  made  him  even  more  concerned  for  Glad  than  before. 


THE    CLAW  103 

Antonio's  tragic  situation  oppressed  him  and  Cliffe's  sally 
was  ill-timed,  to  say  the  least.  Duncan  was  too  sore  in  the 
spot  it  touched  him.  Prohibition  was  the  last  thing;  he  thought 
of  for  a  solution  of  the  harrowing  problems. 


CHAPTER    XII-A 

Duncan  found  Blythe  in  the  inner  office  of  his  large  whole 
sale  house.  The  latter  sprang  to  his  feet  and  greeted  the 
young  man  with  a  great  cordiality. 

"Well,  I'm  glad  to  see  you.  Sit  down."  He  pulled  up  a 
deep  leather  padded  chair  for  Duncan  and  seated  himself  behind 
the  great  oak  desk.  All  of  Blythe's  office  equipment  was 
luxurious. 

"Now  to  business.  There  are  several  things  to  get  over. 
First,  this  Wet  campaign.  We've  got  to  organize,  we  wine 
men.  Fact,  we  have  organized — organized  the  Grape  Growers 
Protective  Association.  The  name  indicates  its  purpose. 
It's  to  rally  to  the  Wet  campaign,  the  forces  of  the  grape  growers 
as  well  as  those  of  the  liquor  people,  to  interest  even  the 
raisin  men,  who  are  involved  with  the  interests  of  the  Wets, 
as  you  know,  for  if  the  wine  industry  is  knocked  out  they'll 
lose  the  market  for  their  second  crop  of  muscats- — a  big  item 
to  them.  It's  to  get  them  all  lined  up  on  the  proposition, 
together  with  the  rest  of  the  liquor  business,  so  we  can  present 
a  solid  front  to  the  enemy. 

"There's  another  reason  for  organizing  the  grape  people. 
There  are  a  lot  of  folks  that  are  opposed  to  the  saloon  and  the 
saloon  element  that  arguments  in  favor  of  the  latter  wont  hold. 
We've  got  to  furnish  'em  other  arguments — the  arguments 
of  the  wine  industry,  for  permancy  in  life. 

"That'll  touch  'em.  We  want  to  send  out  broad-cast  over 
the  state,  literature  giving  the  statistics  concerning  the  industry 
—the  sort  you  used  in  your  campaign  in  Washington  last  sum 
mer;  post  'em  on  what  it'll  mean  to  the  state  if  the  Dry  amend 
ment  carries;  make  'em  see  it'll  touch  their  own  particular 
business.  We've  got  to  visit  the  chambers  of  commerce  and 


THE    CLAW  I  or, 

other  business  and  industrial  organizations  all  over  tlie  state 
and  line  'em  up  for  us — see? 

"Now,  that's  the  stuff,  and  you're  the  man  to  do  it,  from 
your  working  knowledge  of  the  industry  and  your  experience 
at  Washington  last  summer.  We  want  you — got  to  have 
you.  Will  you  do  it?" 

"Why  sure,  Mr.  Blythe,  anything  I  can,"  answered  Duncan. 
"It's  to  my  interest  as  well  as  the  rest  of  the  wine  people.  The 
industry  has  certainly  seen  enough  vicissitudes  without  having 
a  knock  out  blow  just  now.  Of  course,  I  expected  to  go  right 
on  to  the  vineyard;  dismiss  my  foreman  at  the  end  of  the  grape 
season,  and  take  hold  of  things  myself;  economy  makes  it 
necessary  that  I  should,  but  if,  as  you  indicated  the  other  day, 
this  work  would  carry  a  salary  with  it  so  that  I  could  afford 
to  take  the  job  and  keep  my  man  on,  I'll  be  only  too  glad  to 
take  it — would  be  glad  to  take  it  without  any  remuneration 
you  understand,  if  I  could." 

"That's  all  right,  that's  all  right!"  answered  Blythe,  "We 
wouldn't  expect  you  to.  And  now  for  the  next  proposition. 
Of  course,  you  know  we  expect  you  to  be  our  next  assembly 
man."  Duncan  flushed  and  made  a  deprecative  jesture. 

"Sure  we  do.  Everybody  is  talking  about  it  and  its  a  sure 
thing  as  far  as  the  wine  folks  are  concerned.  80  that  brings 
us  to  our  last  proposition.  I  am  just  consolidating  my  business, 
getting  it  into  more  wieldy  form.  As  you  know  it  consists 
of  hirge  wholesale  and  retail  business  houses  at  Stockton, 
Sacramento,  Bakersfield  and  Los  Angeles,  and  other  interests  of 
an  extensive  nature.  At  the  present  time  its  not  managed 
with  the  profit  it  might  be—there's  too  much  leakage.  What 
I  want  to  do  is  to  form  a  partnership  with  some  live  business 
man  who  can  share  my  work  and  responsibility.  A  sort  of 
field  manager  and  thus  cut  out  so  many  small  offices. 

"Xow  it  has  occured  to  me  that  you  might  be  just  that  kind 


106  THE    CLAW 

of  a  man  and  that  the  chance  I  offer  might  at  this  time  prove 
op portune  to  you.  I  followed  your  work  last  summer  at  Wash 
ington  with  a  good  deal  of  attention.  It  showed  not  only  a 
thorough  experience  in  the  industry,  more  than  the  mere  grower 
would  be  expected  to  have,  but  it  showed  also  a  high  degree 
of  intelligence,  initiative,  and  ability  to  cope  with  men.  I 
will  say  without  attempt  at  flattery  that  you  have  surprised 
us  all  here  and  that  you  show  promise  of  a  big  man.  You  have 
combined  your  father's  persuasive  personality  with  a  thoroughly 
practical  mind  and  the  combination  can't  help  but  win." 

Duncan  remained  silent.  He  was  paralyzed  by  the  sig 
nificance  of  the  offer — a  partnership  with  Blythe,  one  of  the 
biggest  wine  men  of  the  state,  whose  yearly  income  was  com 
monly  reported  as  a  million!  If  he  had  been  slow  to  appropriate 
the  favor  in  which  he  appeared  to  be  held  by  the  community, 
as  expressed  in  the  phrases  of  his  other  friends,  this  dazzling 
proposition  left  him  no  doubt  as  to  his  new  status  among  his 
fellow  citizens.  Yet,  he  could  scarcely  credit  the  fact  that 
his  services  at  Washington  had  proven  so  effectual,  the  talents 
manifested  in  his  work  so  promising,  that  a  man  like  Blythe 
would  make  him  an  offer  like  this. 

Blythe  continued  to  talk.  He  liked  to  state  a  business 
proposition  without  interruption,  and  Duncan's  self  contained 
manner,  his  control  of  his  very  visible  surprise,  pleased  him. 
It  showed  unlocked  for  maturity  and  poise. 

"This  is  my  proposition.  I  know,  of  course,  that  you  haven't 
the  capital  to  put  into  the  business  and  that  your  place  is 
heavily  involved.  You  gave  me  your  confidence  to  some 
extent,  you  remember,  when  we  renewed  the  mortgage  the 
last  time.  Now,  I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do.  I'll  take  up  your 
outstanding  notes  for  you  and  renew  the  mortgage  I  took  on 
the  two  hundred  and  fifty  acres.  I'll  take  over  your  equity 
in  the  other  acreage  as  your  share  in  my  business.  I'll  give 


THE    CLAW  107 

you  a  salaried  managership  and  moreover  I'll  back  you  for 
the  legislature — you  won't  have  a  cent  to  pay  toward  getting 
there.  Now  how  about  it?" 

Duncan  had  nothing  to  say  for  a  moment.  If  he  had  been 
astonished  before  he  was  dumb  now  with  the  magnitude  of 
Blythe's  generosity  and  the  flattery  it  implied.  The  deep 
color  mounted  to  his  temples  and  showed  crimson  under  his 
fair  skin.  His  emotion  was  not  lost  on  Blythe,  who  was  fully 
aware  of  the  unusualness  of  his  proposition  and  the  effect  it 
could  be  expected  to  have  on  a  modest  young  man  whose 
powers  were  as  yet  unrealized  by  himself.  He  had  not  made 
the  offer  inadvisedly.  It  was  something  to  get  hold  of  the 
talents  of  a  young  man  like  Duncan  and  make  them  his  own. 
It  was  something — a  good  deal — to  have  the  next  assembly 
man  from  his  district  his  own  man,  a  man  pledged  not  only  to 
look  well  after  the  interests  of  the  wine  men,  but  his  own 
in  particular.  He  had  little  idea  that  the  Dry  amendment 
would  carry  this  year,  but  the  prohibitionists  would  no  doubt 
push  the  advantages  gained  in  this  campaign  and  would  pre 
cipitate  another  at  no  remote  date.  There  was  need  for  work, 
and  the  best  kind  of  work,  at  the  state  capital  in  the  interests 
of  the  liquor  traffic  and  those  particular  phases  of  it  that  Blythe 
represented. 

There  was  reason  for  hesitation  on  the  part  of  Duncan  other 
than  emotion.  The  proposition  involved,  in  the  suggested 
partition  of  the  vineyard,  the  relinquishment  of  his  father's 
ideal  concerning  it.  But  would  not  Cameron  gladly  have 
forfeited  this  long  ambition  in  the  new  and  splendid  prospects 
opened  to  the  one  man  of  his  family?  In  the  thought  of  his 
father's  pleasure  the  moment  was  one  of  rich  happiness  for 
Duncan.  When  he  spoke  it  was  with  directness: 

"Mr.  Blythe,  to  say  that  I  am  astonished  at  your  offer  is 
to  put  it  mildly.  It  involves  a  compliment  to  my  ability  that 


108  THE     CLAW 

I  cannot  accept  without  hesitation.  You're  generous  to  a 
degree  that  I  couldn't  have  expected,  for  no  matter  what  con 
fidence  the  work  you  referred  to  has  inspired  in  you,  you  are 
laying  on  my  future,  a  tremendous  wager.  If  I  went  into 
the  business  though,  I'd  try  to  see  that  you  didn't  lose."  He 
squared  his  shoulders. 

"If  I  had  only  myself  to  think  of  you  may  be  sure  I  wouldn't 
hesitate  a  moment.  It's  a  kind  of  a  proposition  at  which  a 
young  fellow  like  me  shouldn't  have  to  halt,  but  there  is  one 
feature  that  necessitates  my  taking  the  matter  under  consider 
ation.  That  is,  the  parting  with  a  portion  of  the  place.  I 
hope  this  doesn't  seem  petty  to  you.  It's  this  way:  my  father 
had  an  ideal  concerning  his  vineyard — maybe  you've  heard 
him  speak  of  it.  It  was  his  hope  to  keep  it  intact  and  bring 
it  to  a  high  state  of  development;  to  make  of  it  a  permanent 
estate  known  throughout  the  country,  a  place  to  bear  his  mime. 
It's  unusual,  I  know— such  an  ambition — to  us  practical, 
hustling  westerners.  It's  a  part  of  the  old  country  idea  of 
the  family  estate  handed  down  from  generation  to  generation. 
It's  not  a  bad  idea  either  I  think.  It  means  something  perm- 
nent — something  worth  working  for—that  shows  a  man  has 
.lived  and  maintains  in  him  responsibility  for  his  posterity." 
Duncan  was  speaking  rapidly,  eagerly,  defending  his  father's 
ideals  from  a  skeptical  and  somewhat  deprecative  smile  that 
had  crept  into  Blythe's  face.  Blythe  had  never  been  accused 
of  being  an  idealist. 

"I  see,  I  see,"  he  said,  when  Duncan  had  done,  "and  it's  quite 
natural  that  you  should  feel  so.  You're  only  a  generation 
removed  from  old-country  ideals  yourself.  It's  natural,  and 
commendable  too,  that  you  would  like  to  honor  your  father's 
wishes,  but  we  can't  be  too  idealistic  when  a  living  is  at  stake, 
can  we?  Beside  you  have  your  future  to  look  to.  It'd  cer 
tainly  be  a  greater  matter  of  satisfaction  to  your  father  to  see 


THE     CLAW  109 

you  forge  ahead  and  make  a  substantial  name  and  place  for 
yourself  than  to  retain  some  rather  impractical  ideals.  We 
can't  live  here  in  the  west  or  think, .here,  like  they  do  over 
there,  and  our  monuments  in  this  country  are  men,  not  estates. 

"I  offer  you  what  you  have  acknowledged  as  a  rare  oppor 
tunity,  and  I  admit  that  it  is  such.  It's  not  every  man  at. 
twenty-five  or  so  who  has  such  prospects.  It's  yours  by  vir 
tue  of  your  own  talents — and  the  times.  I  tell  you,  young 
fellow,  you've  come  like  a  Daniel  to  judgment — pardon — I 
once  went  to  Sunday  school!"  he  laughed  with  heavy  humor. 

"I  say  that  the  liquor  interests  have  need  of  strong  and  young 
blood  and  a  lot  of  work  where  it'll  do  the  most  good,  in  the 
next  few  years.  You  saw  something  of  the  opposition  developed 
against  us  at  Washington  The  prohibition  forces  are  growing 
in  this  country  and  growing,  fast  and  the  opposition  to  the 
saloon  is  such  that  without  a  shadow  of  a  doubt  it's  only  a 
matter  of  time  till  that  institution,  as  at  present  known,  will 
be  put  out  of  business  entirely.  You  understand  that  I  would 
n't  make  a  public  statement  to  this  effect,  but  we  liquor  men 
must  face  the  facts.  There's  just  one  thing  that  may 
avert  that  climax  and  that  at  any  rate  can  save  the  manufac 
turing  and  grape  growing  interests;  that  is  the  exploitation 
of  wine  as  an  every  day  domestic  beverage  in  this  country, 
and  that's  the  work  cut. out  for  us  to  do  right  now;  the  fos 
tering  of  the  wine  industry  in  the  country. 

"I  was  in  Europe  last  year — traveled  all  over  the  continent 
and  gave  special  attention  to  this  thing.  Scarboro  of  the  Pro 
ducers  and  Wholesale  Company  is  working  on  the  same  thing 
now;  collecting  proofs  of  the  efficacy  of  the  wine  drinking 
habit  as  opposed  to  drunkeness  r.nd  excess.  It's  the  only 
argument  that's  going  to  hold  the  people  and  maintain  our 
business. 

"It's  funny,  what  shortsighted  idiots  there  are  even  among 


110  THE    CLAW 

educated  folks,"  meditated  Blythe,  "To  argue  that  because  a 
fool  like,  say  your  Morton,  for  instance,  acquires  the  bqoze 
habit,  even  a  harmless  thing  like  our  light  wines  must 
be  eliminated  from  family  and  social  use.  Why!  Look  at 
the  lots  of  us  like  myself  and  others  that  were  brought  up  on 
whisky  straight  and  as  much  as  we  wanted  of  it,  who  have  as 
good  hearts,  and  a  good  deal  better  heads  than  the  little  two- 
by-four  timid  men  that  call  for  lemon  soda  and  straws, 
and  die  at  forty-three  of  inanity."  Blythe  pounded  his  first 
on  his  blotter  pad,  with  emotion. 

"The  fellows  that  do  get  down  and  out  with  the  stuff  are  the 
ones  like  Morton  that  have  been  raised  in  temperance  families 
back  in  prohibition  Kansas,  and  are  so  all-fired  dry,  that  when 
they  once  get  started  they  make  hogs  of  themselves.  By  the 
way,  what  are  you  going  to  do  about  Morton?  Pardon  the 
suggestion,  but  he  isn't  a  particularly  good  advertisement  for 
your  business  and  the  prohibition  folks  are  always  happy  when 
they  can  get  an  'awful  example'  like  that.  I  wouldn't  have 
known  anything  about  it,  but  Morton  came  into  my  office 
one  day  to  talk  business  with  me  and  I  sent  him  home  till 
he  could  present  a  respectable  appearance.  I  don't  stand  for 
such  fellows  around  me." 

"I'm  disgusted  with  Morton,"  said  Duncan,  "and  humiliated 
that  things  have  been  going  on  as  they  have — this  cutting 
affair,  it's  awful!  Antonio  was  one  of  the  best  men  we  ever 
had,  absolutely  all  right.  It's  Bernardini's  wine  joint  out 
there  across  from  my  place  that's  made  the  trouble.  It's 
there  the  men  have  got  the  stuff,  and  it's  there  Morton's  been 
feeding  his  perpetual  thirst.  A  winery  hasn't  any  business 
to  retail  goods  to  the  help,  even  inside  the  law,  and  Bernardini 
and  Morton  have  been  doing  a  neat  little  boot  legging  business, 
in  reality." 

"You're  right,"  agreed  Blythe,  " booze  among  the  help  means 


THE    CLAW  111 

inefficiency  and  your  men  laid  off  a  third  of  the  time.  As  for 
me,  I  won't  stand  for  guzzling  among  my  men,  in  any  line  of 
my  business.  I  know  the  personal  habits  of  about  every  man 
in  my  employ.  I  keep  tab  on  every  bar  keeper  in  every  saloon 
I  own.  I  pay  for  steady  and  sober  help,  and  whenever  a  man 
gets  to  be  such  a  fool  that  he  can't  keep  his  appetite  in  bounds 
I  fire  him. 

"But  to  return  to  this  matter  of  wine  exploitation.  It 
must  be  a  campaign  of  education,  in  two  ways;  first, 
that  wine  in  moderation  in  the  homes  and  in  the  places  of  re 
freshment  is  a  harmless  and  beneficient  thing,  and  second  that 
our  California  wines  are  equal  in  every  way  to  foreign  impor 
tation.  It's  funny,  but  it's  nature,  I  guess,  that  something 
brought  in  from  over-seas,  although  it  may  be  an  inferior  quality 
is  better  to  most  folks  than  home  grown  product.  But  we're 
doing  much  in  the  way  of  stimulating  the  market  for  home  wines 
in  the  east.  We've  got  some  live  men  hold  of  the  advertising 
end  of  the  business  and  their  work  is  showing. 

"And  the  wine  drinking  habit  in  America  is  on  the  increase, 
both  in  public  and  in  the  homes.  Especially  out  west  here 
it's  growing  with  the  introduction  of  foreign  drinking  fashions — 
the  open  refreshment  place,  the  cabarets,  and  the  smart 
cafes.  Yes  sir,  we've  had  an  unlocked  for  ally  in  the  increase 
of  these  places.  I've  opened  or  lent  the  money  to  open  no 
less  than  fifty  different  ones  the  past  year.  They're  the  fashion, 
the  fad,  not  only  in  the  cities,  but  in  the  small  places,  in  the 
villages  even.  They're  a  la  mode. 

"Entertainment  and  women  are  spreading  our  gospel  these 
days.  The  women,  bless  'em,  are  oui  most  efficient  exponents. 
They've  put  away  their  Puritan  prejudices  and  are  appreciat 
ing  the  real  social  value  of  wine,  as  it  has  contributed  to  the 
comfort  and  fellowship  of  mankind  for  ages.  The  women- 
well,  before  you  leave  we'll  drink  one  to  them!"  Blythe 


112  THE     CLAW 

balanced  a  delicate  ivory  paper  knife  on  his  finger  and  gazed 
across  it  enthusiastically  at  Duncan.  The  latter  did  not 
respond  with  the  enthusiasm  his  remarks  had  been  designed 
to  incite.  He  was  silent  for  several  moments. 

"I  hope,"  he  said  at  last,  "that  I'm  zealous  for  our  industry 
and  appreciate  the  efforts  looking  toward  an  increased  demand 
for  our  product,  but  these  smart  drinking  places  that  you  say 
are  helping  things  along,  some  of  them  are — he-Ill1'  He  had 
begun  with  deliberation  but  concluded  with  a  bluntness  and 
force  that  made  his  listener  start.  He  was  thinking  of  Glad. 

"Just  what  do  you  mean?"  asked  Blythe  eyeing  him  keenly, 
his  surprise  showing  in  his  face.  Duncan  was  disgusted  with 
himself,  he  had  spoken  impetuously,  inadvisedly.  He  cer 
tainly  did  not  wish  to  illustrate  his  contention  by  detailing 
Glad's  story.  Besides,  this  was  a  business  engagement;  he 
had  showed  bad  taste.  He  passed  the  matter  off  as  easily 
as  possible. 

"I  beg  your  pardon  for  my  abruptness,  but  I  had  something 
on  my  mind — a  devlish  thing  I  heard  of  yesterday  that  involved 
a  little  girl  I  used  to  know.  There  are  knaves  in  every  business, 
but  the  biggest  one  is  the  man  who  will  let  his  places  to  such 
damnable  purposes."  Blythe  smiled  with  relief  and  waved 
the  interruption  aside  with  a  jesture  of  his  hand.  He  was 
glad  to  ignore  it. 

"To  return  to  the  business  in  hand  you  can  see  what  need 
we  have  at  Sacramento  for  men  that  understand  our  business 
and  appreciate  the  value  and  extent  of  it,  men  who  will  devote 
themselves  to  getting  all  the  legislation  possible  that  favors 
our  interests  and  fosters  the  industry.  That  man,  we  think, 
as  I  said  before,  is  you.  It  menus  even-thing  to  me  personally 
whether  or  not  we  can  in  the  next  few  years  procure  such  legis 
lation  and  at  the  same  time  block  the  designs  of  the  prohibi 
tion  cranks.  That's  the  reason  I  want  you  both  in  the  legis- 


THE    CLAW  113 

lature  and  my  business  and  can  afford  to  back  you  for  the  for 
mer.  I  also  realize  what  it  will  mean  a  good  deal  to  you  as 
a  young  man  to  have  the  prestige  of  my  business  association 
and  the  financial  status  you  will  gain  thereby.  Go  home  and 
think  it  over  and  let  me  know  what  you  decide.  Come,  lets 
step  around  to  the  Placentia  and  have  something  before  you 
go,  won't  you?" 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Blythe,  I  won't  take  your  time  any  further 
'though  I  appreciate  the  courtesy.  I  hope  you  know  that  I 
haven't  words  to  express  my  appreciation  of  your  offer,  nor 
the  significance  of  it  as  I  see  it.  I'll  let  you  know  as  soon  as 
possible." 

"Very  well,  very  well!  There  is  no  particular  hurry,  take 
your  time.  Come  around  the  end  of  the  week  and  I'll  show 
you  over  my  Riverdale  business — wholesale  and  retail — and 
we'll  try  and  see  some  of  my  houses  throughout  the  valley,  too. 
Good  bye," 


CHAPTER  XIII 

Duncan  telephoned  to  Marlinee  and  made  an  appointment 
for  the  hour  after  press  time.  Her  buoyant  voice  over  the 
telephone  was  an  immense  refreshment.  It  affected  him  like 
a  cool  breeze  or  a  glass  of  wine  when  he  was  fagged.  He  would 
meet  her  at  the  office  with  the  machine.  They  would  go  for 
a  drive,  and  he  would  tell  her  of  Glad. 

The  boys  in  the  Journal  news-room  were  at  once  apprised 
of  the  appointment  by  Norris,  who  had  been  mischievously 
eaves-dropping. 

"Marlinee's  made  a  date,  Hayward,  I  heard  her!"  flung  he 
at  the  courthouse  man,  "She's  going  out  riding  with  the  Sena 
tor."  Hayward,  whose  open  and  thus  far  unsuccessful  pur 
suit  of  Marlinee  was  an  office  diversion,  dropped  into  an  atti 
tude  of  the  utmost  dejection. 

"Marlinee  has  her  eye  on  Washington  all  right,"  put  in  Gor 
don  of  the  sporting  column.  "As  a  married  man  and  one  who 
knows,  let  me  congratulate  you  on  your  judgment,  Marlinee. 
Between  a  Senator  and  a  newspaper  man  choose  the  former 
every  time.  There  isn't  any  comparison  when  it  comes  to 
the  bank  account." 

"Yes,  that's  right!"  threw  in  Winston.  "With  the  latter 
it's  a  case  of  'everything  going  out  and  nothing  coming  in,' 
while  in  the  case  of  the  Senator,  if  he's  thrifty,  it's  just  the 
other  way." 

"Marl'ee,   MarVee 

Vm  so  sorry 

That  you  threw  me  down. 

"If  you  repeat  it 

I   shall  beat  it 

From  this  cruel  town." 


THE    CLAW  115 

sang  Hayward,  whose  reverses  never  destroyed  his  penchant 
for  fun. 

"Hayward!"  rebuked  Marlinee,  "That's  a  perfectly  impossible 
line—  lMarVee— SorryT 

"Remember  the  'comic  sheet/  Hayward!"  This  from  Gor 
don.  The  "comic  sheet"  was  a  prime  office  joke.  Marlinee 
had  confided  to  Gordon  her  embarrassment  concerning  Hay- 
ward's  attentions: 

"You  know  he's  perfectly  all  right — dandy  fine  company, 
and  he  dances  divinely!  But — oh  well- — think  of  having  a 
comic  sheet  right  in  the  family,  all  the  time!"  Gordon  snorted. 
The  thing  was  too  good  to  keep;  it  leaked,  hence  the  haughty 
and  distant  attitude  of  the  Society  Editor  toward  the  Sporting 
Man — a  punishment  borne  with  fortitude  by  the  latter.  Dun 
can's  auto  horn,  a  familiar  signal,  sounded  at  that  moment 
outside  the  office  door  and  Marlinee  fled  from  her  persecutors. 

In  the  flesh,  Duncan  found  the  girl  even  more  refreshing  than 
over  the  telephone.  Marlinee  offered  a  direct  contrast  to 
Corinne,  in  coloring,  as  in  all  other  things.  Corinne  suggested 
a  resplendent  sunset — Marlinee  a  "violet  in  a  cool  bed",  to 
use  the  words  of  Hayward.  "Darned  cool"  he  amended,  rue 
fully.  A  "Boston-Dixie-mix  and  an  Irish-Creole  blend" 
were  other  "Marl'ee-isms"  of  Hayward,  suggested  by  her 
blue-black  hair  and  Irish  blue  eyes.  Today,  she  did  not  lend 
the  appearance  of  a  fagged  society  reporter  at  the  end  of  a 
hundred-and-six-in-the-shade  day.  She  gave  Duncan  her 
hand  in  frank  and  delighted  greeting,  her  pleasure  mounting 
to  her  cheeks  in  a  delicate  flush. 

In  the  car  she  observed  him  with  candid  and  approving  eyes. 
He  had  changed  in  the  year  he  had  been  gone,  and  for  the 
better.  There  was  the  same  quiet  strength,  the  sense  of  power 
lent  by  his  broad  shoulders  and  quiet  voice.  There  was  his 
old  abrupt  way  that  she  liked — almost  brutal  in  its  frankness. 


116  THE    CLAW 

But  there  was  something  more,  a  certain  ease  of  manner  and 
a  consciousness  of  self -power  that  was  new  to  him. 

"I  didn't  see. you  yesterday  when  I  was  at  the  office,"  he 
said  after  their  first  interchange  of  greeting,  and  they  were 
spinning  smoothly  out  on  a  quiet  boulevard.  "You  must 
have  been  out."  She  laughed,  fingering  delicately  the  long 
handle  of  her  parasol. 

"I  know  you  didn't  see  me,  but  I  saw  you,  and  it  was  a  sight 
I  wouldn't  have  missed.  It's  something  to  see  a  'coming  man'- — 
just  at  incubation,  right  at  the  breaking  of  the  shell  as  it  were. 
Now  I've  seen  the  man  who  have  'arrived/  often,  and  the  man 
who  hopes  to  arrive.  He  haunts  our  office  daily.  But  the 
man  who  is  just  there — at  the  very  point — You  watch" — she 
indicated,  breathlessly,  "and  you  see  him  made!  It's  as 
thrilling  as  watching  them  blow  a  glass  peacock  at  Hartley's 
while  you  wait."  Duncan  laughed  ruefully. 

"And  he  acts  like  a  peacock — you  mean.  But  say,  really, 
you  weren't  there.  I  would  have  seen  you — I  looked  for  you." 

"Oh,  no  you  didn't,"  she  contradicted.  "I  was  right  there 
in  my  little  chair,  in  my  little  corner,  and  you  didn't  see  me. 
But  its  no  matter/'  she  added,  "you  didn't  see  anybody— 
in  fact,  you  were  rattled.  Now  weren't  you?  It  was  real 
fun!" 

"I  say,  you're  joshing  me — well  anyway  I  wasn't  the  peacock 
you  describe — I'm  not  even  the  coming  man."  He  laughed 
embarrassedly.  He  remembered  she  was  assigning  him  the 
same  applause  and  in  almost  the  same  words  as  Corinne.  He 
felt  chagrinned  that  he  had  failed  to  see  her.  And  he  had 
sought  Corinne  on  his  first  evening.  He  hoped  she  did  not 
know  that. 

"But  I  insist  that  you  are,"  she  said.  She  bent  toward  him, 
earnestly:  "You've  come  to  your  own.  You  are  all  that  I 
knew  you  could  be.  It  was  in  you  from  your  mother  and 


THE    CLAW  117 

your  father.  Its  the.  father-part  you've  been  adding  last. 
I'm  proud  of  you!"  Her  eyes  shone  with  a  bright  emotion. 
He  blushed  with  pleasure.  It  was  a  great  thing  to  have  such 
words  from  Marlinee,  for  she  was  as  reserved  in  her  deeper 
emotions,  ordinarily,  as  himself.  He  was  surprised, 
too,  at  her  perception,  for  although  he  had  not  realized  it  before 
he  acknowledged  to  himself  she  was  right.  He  had  grown  and 
the  latter  growth  was  in  a  new  likeness  to  his  father.  As 
always,  when  he  felt  deeply,  he  answered  with  bluntness. 

"That's  kind,  Marlinee,  it  means  a  lot  from  you.  I  suppose 
one  couldn't  live  in  the  east  a  year  and  not  become  changed 
somewhat.  Its  a  great  thing  for  a  westerner — everything's 
so  different.  You  have  a  sense  of  something  older,  bigger  and 
more  solid,  and  an  appreciation  of  your  own  littleness. 
Then  the  University — that's  a  great  university — there  are 
great  men  there.  I  wouldn't  have  missed  it  for  a  whole  lot. 
I'm  mighty  thankful  I  had  the  year  back  there — I'm  mighty 
thankful  my  father  insisted  on  it,  though  I  was  needed  at  home. 
I  found  things  at  the  vineyard  in  a  pretty  mess  when  I  got 
here,"  he  added,  the  shadow  falling  across  his  face.  "Of 
course,  you  know  of  Antonio?  That  makes  me  sick!"  He 
spoke  with  a  wince. 

Marlinee  reached  her  hand  to  him — a  jesture  that  belonged 
to  her.  It  was  one  of  mute  sympathy.  Her  own  heart  had 
been  wrung  at  the  news  of  Antonio.  She  had  known  him  well; 
in  the  slack  vineyard  season  he  had  worked  for  her  on  the  ranch. 
But  there  was  a  bitterness  in  the  tragedy  for  her,  beyond  the 
mere  facts,  that  involved  the  old  hurt. 

She  eyed  Duncan's  downcast  face  with  a  keen  inquiry. 
Were  his  deductions  no  keener,  with  his  increased  experiences 
and  larger  intellectual  life?  Could  he  not  see  now,  what  had 
always  been  so  plain  to  herself — the  relation  between  cause 
and  effect  in  this  matter?  She  opened  her  mouth  to  speak,  to 


118  THE    CLAW 

free  her  sore  mind  of  the  indignation,  the  grief  she  felt  in  the 
matter,  the  responsibility  men  had  in  the  death  of  this  one 
man  and  the  doom  of  the  other.  Here  was  a  time  to  press  home 
her  contention,  to  rid  the  argument,  by  this  illustration,  of  any 
sentimental,  overdrawn  aspect. 

But  she  hesitated.  Surely  he  would  see  it  now,  in  this 
instance  in  which  he  was  so  closely  involved.  Surely  with  his 
tenderness  of  heart  and  solicitude  he  would  sense  it.  Surely 
already  he  realized  it.  It  was  that,  partly,  that  brought  the 
brooding  to  his  face  and  the  shudder  to  his  voice  as  he  spoke. 
It  would  be  brutal  to  turn  the  thrust  in  the  wound.  Or — if  he 
did  not  see,  if  this  could  not  convince  him,  would  she  do  so  by 
her  own  arguments?  No,  let  him  wait — let  him  learn  himself. 
It  would  be  ?  discredit  to  his  own  mentality  to  have  his  con 
victions  fixed  by  a  woman.  Marlinee's  deep  pride  in  him 
forbade  that.  He  must  learn  for  himself — his  own  reason,  his 
own  perceptions  must  teach  him  or  she  would  never  do  it. 

"It  was  terrible" — she  said  with  all  the  horror  she  felt,  in  her 
voice,  "Is  there  any  possibility  of  saving  Antonio?  The  boys 
said  things  looked  badly." 

"Little,  I'm  afraid,"  answered  Duncan.  He  detailed  briefly 
Attorney  Cliffe's  opinion.  He  observed  her  distress  and  sensed 
its  unspoken  implication.  It  suggested  precipitation  of  the 
old  debate.  He  changed  the  subject  quickly  and  their  inter 
course  sought  pleasanter  channels.  There  was  much  to  talk  of; 
he  related  some  of  his  college  and  Washington  experiences — she 
sketched  drolly  some  of  the  encounters  of  her  day,  the  gossip  of 
the  office  and  the  neighborhood,  for  she  spent  her  week-ends  at 
her  ranch.  They  renewed  with  ease  and  pleasure  the  old, 
delightful  comradeship.  At  the  last  he  had  nearly  forgotten 
the  main  errand  on  which  he  sought  her. 

"By  the  way,  Marlinee,  I  want  to  crave  a  favor,  a  very  un 
usual  one,  in  fact.  I've  neglected  in  the  pleasure  of  seeing  and 


THE    CLAW  119 

talking  with  you  again,  a  very  unhappy  errand. I  had."  He  told 
her  the  story  of  Glad  with  less  embarrassment  than  he  had 
thought,  her  matter  of  fact,  pra  ctical  manner  and  her  interest 
and  solicitude  making  it  easy. 

"I  remember  the  girl.  She  was  a  darling — an  exquisite  little 
thing  and  so  unspoiled.  I  was  interested  in  her  ahd  used  to 
talk  to  her  when  I  would  be  in  the  store  sometimes.  I  meant  to 
keep  track  of  her,  to  look  after  her  a  little,  she  was  so  young  and 
new,  but  I  forgot,  or  got  busy  or  something.  We're  all  at 
i'ault  in  these  things.  I'll  do  anything  I  can  now — anything 
you  want  me  to. 

"Oh,"  she  cried  impulsively.  "You  don't  know  anything 
about  the  evil  that  is  going  on  in  the  world — or  perhaps  you 
do — your  a  man.  But  /  see  it.  I  know  it;  so  much  that  I'd 
rather  not  know — not  believe.  A  newspaper  office  is  a  clearing 
house  for  such  things.  We  ought  to  help — we  who  know 
what's  right — we  who  are  strong!  There  are  so  many  weak 
ones  in  the  world  and  so  many  wicked  ones  like  this  man. 
And  he  got  this  baby  drunk — oh — I  could  kill  him!"  She 
spoke  with  a  vehemence  that  shook  her;  a  passion  that  struck 
the  youthful  lines  from  her  face  and  made  it  old  and  rebellious. 

The  change  was  startling.  Duncan  saw  it  with  wonder,  with 
dismay.  He  had  been  right,  Marlinee  should  not  have  taken 
up  this  line  of  work;  its  experiences  were  too  hard  for  her,  its 
revelations  too  brutal  for  her  delicate  sensibilities.  He  wholly 
overlooked  the  crux  of  her  bitterness:  here  it  was  again,  and  a 
woman  the  victim.  The  women  are  always  the  victims,  in 
the  last  solution.  Only  the  Sunday  before  she  had  visited 
Antonio's  frantic  wife  and  she  had  not  slept  that  night.  Oh, 
blind — blind— blind — were  men!  There  were  none  who  saw 
but  the  women,  the  women  that  "must  weep."  Duncan  saw 
the  thoughts  reflected  in  Marlinee's  troubled  face. 

"You  mustn't  take  it  so  hard,"  he  said,  gently — "or  I  shall 


120  THE    CLAW 

be  sorry  I  told  you.  You  mustn't  let  it  affect  you  so — this  or 
anything  else.  Such  things  will  happen,  I  suppose,  though  I 
confess  this  was  something  new  to  me — a  revelation.  I  guess 
I've  been  awfully  self  centered.  I  never  thought  of  these 
things  much — of  one's  responsibility  to  others.  Every  thing 
seemed  to  be  sort  of  fixed  and  established,  I  never  could  see 
what  folks  were  butting  into  other  people's  affairs  for,  all  the 
time,  with  their  regulations  and  reforms.  They  made  me 
tired.  But  here  is  a  case  where  somebody  ought  to  have4 
interfered.  That  man  ought  to  be  shot!"  He  recalled 
Marlinee's  threat  and  laughed.  "I  guess  between  us  we'll  do 
it.  Anyway  I  mean  to  see  if  there  can't  be  a  stop  put  to  this 
thing — that  cafe's  license  revoked,  or  something." 

Marlinee's  face  had  cleared,  she  was  smiling.  This  from 
Duncan!  This  acknowledgement  of  a  new  self — this  under 
standing  of  a  past  blindness  so  evident  to  herself.  Ah,  he  had 
changed,  and  this  was  a  part  of  it.  But  was  he  ready  for  the 
final  and  logical  step?  She  thought  with  anxiety  of  the  flattery 
and  opportunities  opening  to  him;  the  new  popularity  he 
enjoyed  among  his  friends.  The  whole  city,  or  at  least  the 
business  district  was  calling  for  him  as  the  leader  against  the 
Drys  in  the  present  campaign.  Could  he  resist?  Was  there  a 
native  independence  in  him,  a  clearness  of  vision  which,  roused, 
convinced  by  the  strange  and  compelling  arguments  which  had 
come  so  suddenly  into  his  life,  was  strong  enough  to  shake  off 
the  grip  of  prejudice,  training,  social  usage,  resist  ambition  in 
its  brightest  guise  and  cause  him  to  take  a  stand  independent 
and  unique?  Her  girlish  ardor,  her  woman's  ambition — some 
thing  maternal  and  brooding  within  her  plead  for  this  triumph 
for  Duncan. 

She  saw  much  good  in  him  in  the  championship  of  the  un 
happy  little  creature  for  whom  ho  had  craved  her  interest. 
She  was  happy  to  co-operate  in  a  work  that  meant  perhaps 


THE    CLAW  121 

salvation  for  an  abandoned  woman  and  a  new  spiritual  vision 
for  Duncan.  She  promised  to  visit  the  hospital  as  soon  as  he 
could  arrange  for  her  to  call.  He  suggested,  and  she  agreed 
that  it  would  be  best  for  him  to  see  Glad  first,  and  pave  the 
way  For  admitting  another  into  the  confidence  of  her  pitiful 
tragedy. 


CHAPTER  FOURTEEN 

Marlinee  was  one  of  those  who  find  the  viewpoint  of  the  pro- 
liquor  people  almost  impossible  of  appreciation.  The  cir 
cumstances  of  her  life  made  it  so. 

She  was  born  in  Kansas,  and  reared  under  a  prohibition 
regime.  Marlinee,  in  a  village  of  6,000  or  so  had  not  seen  a 
drunk  man  until  she  was  twelve  years  old.  The  children  of 
the  neighborhood  came  flying  into  their  homes  in  fright  at 
sight  of  the  staggering,  mumbling,  individual  moving  laboriously 
along  their  quiet  street.  They  thought  him  a  crazy  man. 

Environment,  custom,  and  training  equipped  the  girl  with 
latent  prohibition  principles,  but  her  convictions  were  not 
wholly  imposed  ones.  Her  first  impressions  in  a  country  where 
those  principles  were  violated  in  the  most  matter  of  fact  way 
afforded  a  shock  to  her  sensibilities,  and  indignation  to  her 
sense  of  justice,  emphasized  her  convictions  and  lent  to 
them  all  the  vigor  and  revolt  of  which  her  sensitive  mind  was 
capable.  One  of  these  impressions  was  received  in  her  first 
month  in  the  Journal.  She  was  pursuing  a  narrow  street  of 
Riverdale,  a  short  cut  in  the  business  section,  when  a  prostrate 
object  in  a  half  open  door  suddenly  blocked  her  way  and 
caused  her  to  start  in  fright.  It  was  a  man  sprawled  on  the 
ground.  His  head  was  thrust  into  the  angle  formed  by  the 
door  and  the  wall  and  bent  half  under  him.  His  eyes  were 
shut,  his  mouth  open,  gaping.  A  thin  trickle  of  blood  was 
running  from  his  forehead.  The  girl  shrank  back  and  circled 
involuntarily  around  him,  then  she  turned,  bending  over  him 
in  shrinking  horror.  Her  thought  was  that  he  was  dead. 

Her  dismayed  ejaculation  brought  a  man  to  the  door  and  she 
saw  it  was  the  door  of  a  bar-room — the  rear  door.  The  man 
was  the  bar-keeper.  He  was  smirk  and  clean  in  imm  aculate 


THE    CLAW  123 

apron,  plastered  hair  and  heavy  perfumery.  He  looked 
indifferently  at  the  frightened  girl  and  stepped  around  to  the 
object  outside.  He  moved  it  with  his  foot^  gingerly,  as  though 
it  were  a  carcass.  Then  he  looked  within  and  made  a  sharp 
jesture  with  his  thumb  to  someone.  A  man  with  a  star  on  his 
coat  lounged  leisurely  out.  The  bar-keeper  gave  him  a  shrewd 
wink  as  he  emerged  and  pointed  to  the  prostrate  form  of  the 
man.  The  officer  with  an  oath,  siezed  him  by  the  arm  and 
kicked  him,  snivelling  and  staring  to  his  feet. 

Marlinee  fled  up  the  alley.  She  burst  out  into  the  wide  street 
where  men  and  women  were  causually  taking  their  way.  Her 
heart  was  beating  against  her  sides.  She  was  faint;  her  throat 
felt  as  though  hands  clutched  it.  She  groped  her  way 
to  the  office  of  the  Journal  and  staggered  in.  She  dropped 
in  the  chair  opposite  the  city  editor.  He  looked  up  startled 
at  her  white  face. 

"Why,  what  is  it?"  he  asked  in  concern.  The  girl  gripped  her 
throat  where  her  indignation  burned  like  a  flame.  She  closed 
her  eyes  in  the  excess  of  her  faintness  and  horror.  "Oh,"  she 
panted.  "Out  there!  Out  there  I  saw  something  terrible!" 

"What — where?"  the  news  instinct  siezed  the  city  editor. 
He  forgot  the  girl  and  dashed  out  of  the  building.  In  a  moment 
he  was  back.  He  sat  down  laughing,  and  eyed  Marlinee  with 
some  wonder. 

"Aw — that!  Why,  that  was  just  a  drunk  they're  taking  over 
to  the  police  station."  The  girl  stared  at  him  a  moment 
speechless. 

"That's  all,  you  say — all\  And  you — a  man\  Why,  he  lay 
there — horrible — like  a  dead  man,  his  mouth  in  the  dirt,  blood 
trickling!  I  thought  he  was  dead.  And  while  I  looked  and 
was  just  going  to  cry  out  be  came — the  man  inside — so  smirk 
and  clean,  and  he  touched  him  with  his  foot — he  who  made  him 
that  way — as  though  he  wasn't  fit — as  though  he  was  a  dog. 


124  THE     CLAW 

And  the  other  kicked  him.  Oh! — if  I  were  his  mother — that 
man's — I  would  kill  them.  *  *  *  *  And  then  they  take  him  to 
the  police  and  make  him  pay  the  city  money,  for  making  him 
that  way.  Oh — I  hate  men — I  bate  them!"  She  dropped  her 
head  in  her  hands  and  her  body  shook  with  sudden  sobs. 

The  editor  looked  at  her  in  astonishment  and  discomfiture. 
There  was  no  one  else  about — it  was  the  noon  hour.  He  was 
glad.  He  couldn't  think  just  what  he  ought  to  do.  Then  a 
light  fell  upon  him.  He  remembered  something  and  he  laughed 
reassuringly : 

"Aw,  cheer  up!"  he  said,  "I  wouldn't  take  it  so  hard.  You're 
a  little  Jayhawker,  aren't  you? — one  of  those  Kansas  folks  that 
aren't  used  to  such  things?  You  stay  in  California  a  while  and 
you'll  get  used  to  a  little  thing  like  that."  He  was  glad  that  the 
telephone  rang.  When  he  was  done  talking  she  had  gone. 

Marlinee  "got  used"  to  such  things,  in  a  way,  but  not  in  the 
way  the  city  editor  prophesied.  Her  life  in  the  office  and  on  the 
street  inured  her  to  such  sights,  but  never  lent  immunity  to  the 
horror  of  it.  It  was  this  incident  that  prompted  pulling 
up  her  wine  grape  vines.  It  was  a  relief  to  her  feelings  to  do  one 
radical  deed,  put  in  one  telling  stroke  against  the  whisky 
interests.  She  would  gladly  have  handled  the  spade  and  grub- 
hook  herself,  to  help  rid  the  world  of  such  a  monstrous  insti 
tution  of  injustice:  the  conscious  destruction  of  human  life  and 
character  in  the  name  of  business! 

Her's  was  an  idealism,  the  direct  opposite  of  the  motive  that 
maintains  the  liquor  business.  Such  materialism  was  her 
natural  enemy,  realized  and  scorned  by  every  instinct  of  her 
being.  It  was  to  be  a  thing  met  in  many  other  phases  than 
that  of  the  liquor  industry;  in  the  worldliness  to  which  her 
work  as  a  reporter  introduced  her;  in  the  self-seeking  policies 
and  compromises  disovered  in  the  business  and  political  world; 
even  in  the  churches  and  tl  e  institutions  that  stood,  presumably 


THK     CLAW  125 

for  the  very  opposite  motives,  she  too  often  recognized  the 
subtle  influence  of  material  appeal — the  compromise  for  the 
end  of  popularity  and  advancement. 

These  were  the  things  her  young,  sensitive  soul  discovered 
in  her  daily  encounters ;  disillusionizing  things,  things  that  first 
startled  and  amazed  and  then  overwhelmed  with  a  great  pain 
and  disappointment. 

The  moral  travail  of  a  supersensitive  mind  is  unintelligible  to 
the  man  or  woman  of  blunt  sensibilities,  but  to  thousands  in 
whom  the  enduring  ideals  are  the  only  realities,  the  suffering 
that  the  inexperienced  girl  endured  in  her  apprenticeship  in  a 
world  wholly  unexplored — the  real  world  she  had  never  known 
— will  be  understood  and  appreciated. 

But  new  things  came  to  the  rescue  of  her  disappointed  mind : 
more  understanding  of  human  nature;  the  taking  into  con 
sideration  of  circumstances.  It  helped  to  lend  ease  to  the  hurt 
of  many  things.  This  capacity  for  a  shifting  viewpoint  was 
the  thing  that  saved  her  friendship  with  Duncan.  Or  perhaps 
it  was  Duncan's  friendship — the  frank  affection  she  bore  for 
him — that  necessitated  her  acknowledgment  of  another  view 
point. 

Their  first  and  last  encounter  on  the  liquor  question  was 
precipitated  by  her  action  in  regard  to  her  vineyard.  Duncan 
amplified  the  justification  of  the  industry  in  a 
peroration  that  would  have  done  credit  to  his  father.  In  fact 
it  was  a  transcript  in  every  way  of  Cameron's  arguments.  Mar- 
linee  listened  and  was  not  impressed.  In  fact  her  indignation 
grew  together  with  a  haughty  feeling  of  superiority  in  her 
own  judgments — Duncan's  arguments  were  so  wholly  lacking 
in  originality.  But  afterwards,  and  many  times  in  the  future, 
she  honestly  endeavored  to  put  herself  in  Duncan's  place — in 
the  place  of  every  man  or  woman  to  whom  the  use  of  alcoholic 
beverages  is  an  every  day  affair,  for  she  decided  that  custom 


126  THE    CLAW 

and  inherited  prejudice  were  the  only  things  that  could  excuse 
the  persistence  of  men  and  women  in  a  licensed  regime  that 
constituted  such  a  menace  to  themselves  and  hurt  to  thousands 
of  their  fellow  men. 

But  it  was  a  difficult — a  well-nigh  impossible  task.  How  can 
one  into  whose  d?ily  life  as  a  domestic  item,  wine  has  never 
come,  appreciate  the  place  it  and  kindred  beverages  take  in 
homes  where  it  is  in  daily  use?  How  could  Marlinee  who  was 
primarily  social  yet  to  whose  sociability  wine  drinking  had 
never  been  a  conceivable  necessity,  understand  the  household 
where  the  hand  extended  in  greeting  and  the  one  reaching  for 
the  decanter  constitute  the  same  act  of  hospitality.  She 
tried,  but  it  was  hard  and  her  best  efforts  were  continually 
frustrated  by  the  recurring  examples  of  the  evil  of  the  thing, 
the  examples  afforded  her  every  day;  Hay  ward,  the  smartest 
man  on  the  force  who  was  tempting  incapacitation  by  the  booze 
route;  Wakefield,  the  wreck  that  weaved  his  senile  way  into  the 
office  periodically,  and,  button-holing  the  boys,  begged  with 
alcoholic  emotion,  in  the  name  of  the  old  days,  to  stake  him  to 
one  more  drink;  Middleson,  the  best  criminal  attorney  in  the 
state  who  gave  them  the  year's  scoop  and  an  extra  in  a  no 
toriously  dry  week,  by  blowing  his  brains  out  in  the  Commerce 
building  after  a  ten  days'  spree;  the  leakings  of  smart  society 
that  betrayed  things  not  designed  for  the  society  page,  or  Mrs. 
B's  maid  from  which  porous  source  they  came. 

"Stupidity!  Stupidity!"  Marlinee's  indignant  mind  cried. 
"One  half  of  the  world  licensing  the  other  half  to  destroy  it, 
and  pocketing  the  money  with  a  gratified  smile,  as  though  it 
were  a  huge  bargain." 


CHAPTER    FIFTEEN 

The  problem  of  Glad's  immediate  future  had  been  simplified 
by  the  culmination  indicated  by  the  doctor,  but  the  future  was 
yet  gravely  precarious  and  even  doubtful  and  for  a  time  it 
seemed  that  it  would  be  solved  by  the  Presence  that  in  such 
cases  as  Glad's  appears,  if  it  comes,  in  the  guise  of  a  friend 
rather  than  a  foe.  Long  after  there  was  no  doubt  of  the  girl's 
physical  recovery,  her  mind  remained  in  a  condition  of  distress 
and  agitation,  serious  and  pathetic.  The  girl  had  received  one 
of  those  mental  and  spiritual  shocks,  the  more  disastrous  as 
the  object  is  sensitive  and  receptive. 

Duncan  or  Marlinee  visited  her  daily — often  together.  They 
brought  her  as  much  self-forgetfulness  as  they  could  provide  by 
cheerful  presence,  books,  pictures  and  enlivening  talk. 
Marlinee  had  won  her  from  the  first.  To  Duncan  she  clung 
with  the  desperation  of  one  who  is  hanging  above  an  abyss. 
Twice  he  had  come  on  call  from  the  nurse,  when  her  mind 
seemed  threatened  and  his  presence  had  calmed  her.  She 
looked  with  eager  expectation  for  their  appearance,  but  after 
their  first  greeting  that  brought  a  faint  smile  and  a  glimpse  of 
old  color  to  her  cheeks,  she  fell  into  silence,  allowing  them  the 
responsibility  of  conversation.  And  while  they  engaged  in 
animated  and  companionable  talk  she  sat  back  among  her 
pillows  observing  them  in  a  sort  of  dreamy  compassion  as  of  one 
many  years  older  in  years  and  experience,  the  sad  tears  standing 
in  her  eyes.  Altogether  her  progress  was  not  satisfactory,  and 
the  two  friends  plotted  the  annexation  of  a  new  ally.  The 
suggestion  came  from  a  conversation  reported  by  Marlinee. 

"You  work  at  the  Sun  office?"  Glad  questioned  her  one  day. 
A  sad  confusion  of  ideas  was  one  of  the  things  that  characterized 
her  condition. 


128  THE    CLAW 

"No,  at  the  Journal/'  corrected  Marl'nee,  gently. 

"The  Journal!"  A  soft  flush  diffused  Glad's  little  face  and 
she  brightened.  "I  know  a  boy  on  the  Journal — 1  used  to 
know  him,"  she  added  sadly.  "His  name  was  Norris." 

"Norris!"  exclaimed  Marlinee.  "Why,  yes,  Freddie  Norris — 
and  one  of  our  best  men.  Freddie  is  all  right!" 

"He's  awfully  nice,"  agreed  Glad  softly.  "He  was  awfully 
good  to  me.  I — I  liked  him."  Her  eyes  filled  suddenly  and 
she  said  no  more. 

After  they  had  compared  notes — Duncan  reciting  the  girl's 
first  reference  to  Norris— they  decided  to  solicit  the  boy  in  a, 
triple  alliance  to  the  end  of  Glad's  recovery. 

"Norris  never  meant  any  harm,  if  he  did  lose  his  head," 
said  Duncan,  referring  to  Glad's  first  version  of  their  acquaint 
ance.  "He's  as  clean  and  fine  a  chap  as  I  know — at  least  he  was 
when  I  left  last  fall." 

"He  is  yet,  he's  a  dear"  answered  Marlinee.  Norris  was 
one  of  her  enthusiasms. 

"There's  only  this,"  hesitated  Duncan.  "She's  been  so 
terribly  hurt,  once,  and  she  seems  to  have  a  real  affection  for 
Norris.  Suppose  she  should  fall  in  love  with  him.  I  wouldn't 
want  her  to  have  any  more  troubles,  poor  little  girl." 

"Suppose  she  should  full  in  love  with  him,  and  suppose  he 
should  fall  in  love  with  her."  There  is  a  matchmaker  in  the 
heart  of  every  normal  woman,  and  Marlinee  had  her  own 
concerns  for  little  Norris.  "She  is  beautiful,  she  is  charming. 
This  thing — it,  it  was  nothing  of  her  own  inviting.  It's  like 
some  terrible  accident  for  which  the  victim  is  not  to  blame, 
some  disfiguring  accident,  but  if  a  man's  love  is  strong  enough 
and  deep  enough,  and  the  object  is  worthy,  he  wont  think  of 
that.  It  will  make  his  love  even  a  stronger  and  more  tender 
thing."  Thus  spoke  Marlinee  in  the  wisdom  of  her  years. 

"Glad  and  Norris  are  well  mated.     They  are  each  rare; 


THE     CLAW  129 

Norris  is  young — too  young;  to  be  in  the  newspaper  game,"  she 
tickled  anxiously.  "It  would  be  the  best  thing  in  the  world  for 
him  to  settle  down  early  and  he  couldn't  find  a  more  adorable 
little  thing  to  work  for  than  Glad."  Duncan  laughed,  long  and 
hard.  Marlinee  was  disgusted.  She  pushed  out  her  chin  and 
walked  haughtily  two  steps  ahead.  He  made  a  long  step  and 
was  beside  her. 

"Mad?"  he  quoted,  after  the  manner  of  their  youngster 
days.  "But  it  was  funny!  Heavens!  Marlinee,  you  talked 
like  seventy  and  grayhaired.  And  I'm  jealous.  All  this 
concern  transferred  to  little  Norris,  and  I  used  to  be  your  only 
object- of  solicitude." 

"Onlyl  Well  that's  some  conceit!"  flashed  Marlinee.  She 
was  blushing. 

"Ob,  well — almost  only,"  amended  Duncan,  lamely. 

So  .Norris  was  elected  to  Glad's  cause.  Norris  was  an  epitome 
of  spring.  There  was  a  glow  about  him  like  the  sun  on  a  green 
meadow;  his  eyes  were,  like  spring  pools.  His  hair  swept  back 
from  his  forehead  as  though  he  were  pressing  against  the  wind, 
he  had  a  way  of  shaking  it  like  an  eager  horse  beginning  a  race. 
His  nostrils  seemed  always  to  be  scenting  delight.  His  unusual 
beauty  took  hold  of  all,  from  the  soda  fountain  girls  that  handed 
him  his  order  with  an  air  of  caress,  to  the  bat-eyed  janitor  of 
his  boarding  place,  who  waited  mornings  with  the  eagerness  of  a 
silly  girl,  to  hear  his  not  too  respectful  greeting.  And  Norris' 
well  of  joy  consisted  in  the  fact  that  he  was  cub  reporter  on  the 
Riverdale  Journal  at  sixteen  dollars  a  week,  with  the  duties  of  a 
roust-about  man,  but  with  prospects. 

Marlinee  sounded  him  concerning  Glad  the  following  day 
after  press  time.,  Norris  was  munching  at  a  box  of  chocolate 
wafers,  a  substitude  for  his  omitted  luncheon,  and  was  meditat 
ing  the  lead  paragraph  for  his  story.  The  two,  surprisingly, 
had  the  office  to  themselves. 


130  THE    CLAW 

"Do  you  know  Glad  Garrison?"  Marlinee  asked,  abruptly. 

"Glad  Garrison?"  Norris  disposed  of  three  wafers  at  once 
and  answeied  under  difficulties.  "Glad  Garrison,  that  little 
fountain  peacherino  up  at  the  Inglenook?  Or  she  used  to  be 
there.  She's  the  cutest  little  Chicken  that  ever  toed  it  down 
the  pike!"  Marlinee  eyed  the  boy  with  disgust.  For  the  first 
time  since  her  acquaintance  with  Norris  she  disapproved  of  him. 
This  young  princeling  preening  himself  in  a  new  suit  of  beach 
flannels;  this  fledgling  with  the  itch  of  his  first  moustache;  this 
new  man  jauntily  phrasing  men's  age-old  assumption  con 
cerning  women.  Norris,  finishing  the  box,  was  blissfully 
unaware  of  Marlinee's  reservations.  "What  happened  to  the 
little  girl?"  he  asked,  airily. 

"She's  dying,  that's  all,"  answered  Marlinee,  her  disgust 
provoking  brutality. 

"What!"  The  boy  dropped  the  pencil  he  was  toying  with. 
His  face  had  gone  white.  "How?" 

"How?"  Marlinee  was  relentless.  "Why,  by  the  perfidy  of 
man,  that's  all.  Men,  who  assume  that  all  young  unprotected 
girls  are  'Chickens,'  'Dolls,'  and  their  natural  victims." 

"Say — you  don't  mean  that!"  Norris  was  on  his  feet.  His 
concern  was  unmistakable.  "Who — when — I'd  like  to  meet 
the  wretch,  damn  him!  Why  she  was  good,  darn  it,  she  was 
absolutely  sweet  and  good!"  A  blush  stole  under  his  fair  skin. 
"Why,  that  little  girl — Say,  Miss  Marlinee — I  knew  that  little 
girl  and  thought  a  lot  of  her!  I  used  to  take  her  out,  a  little, 
and  I  would  have  more  only — oh,  well!  Say,  she's  all  right 
and  the  man  who  did  her  harm  is  a  damnable  dog. 

"Why,  do  you  know,"  he  was  bending  toward  her,  confidingly, 
with  the  concern  and  earnestness  in  his  eyes  that  lent  him  his 
lovableness.  "I  don't  mind  telling  you.  It  was  because  I 
kissed  her  that  she  got  sore  at  me.  That's  how  straight  she 
is."  Marlinee's  eyes  interrogated  coldly. 


THE    CLAW  131 

"Oh,  you  don't  understand!"  he  cried.  "You  know  me, 
surely!  I'm  a  man,  of  course,"  he  apologized  for  the  accident, 
"but  I'm  not  a  cad  or  a  brute.  She  had  such  pretty  ways  about 
her  and  such  a  darn  pretty  little  mouth.  And  she  trusted  me,  ' 
his  shoulders  went  back  adorably.  "She  treated  me  just  like 
her  brother  and  once  she  kissed  me,"  Norris  grew  rather  in 
coherent  at  this  point,  "a  darn  funny  little  kiss  on  the  mouth, 
just  like  a  little  kid,  and  it  sort  of  turned  my  head.  Funny 
that  a  girl  would  kiss  you,  but  it  would  make  her  mad  if  you 
kissed  her.  But  I  scared  her,  or  hurt  her  feelings  or  something. 
She  wouldn't  let  me  explain  and  she  wouldn't  have  anything 
to  do  with  me  after  that.  I  felt  awfully  sore  about  it,  especially 
when  I  heard  of  her  going  around  with  some  girls  in  the  shop 
and  their  friends,  she  oughtened  to  have  had  anything  to  do 
with.  I  went  to  her  one  day  and  tried  to  warn  her,  but  darn 
it  if  she  didn't  turn  around  and  remind  me  of  what  I'd  done! 
Said  I  needn't  be  afraid  for  her.  I'd  taught  her  what  men 
were  like.  The  man  ought  to  be  sent  up — if  he  could  be  found. 
Maybe  I  can  find  him  while  I'm  on  my  beat.  If  we  could  find 
him  and  have  him  arrested  or  something!"  Marlinee  smiled  at 
the  boy's  eagerness. 

"If  we  could  find  him  we  would  hardly  want  to  give  the 
affair  and  the  little  girl  publicity."  Norris'  face  fell.  "Be 
sides,"  pursued  Marlinee,  (the  incidents  of  the  newspaper 
woman's  life  inures  her  to  the  discussion  of  indelicate  things 
and  she  wanted  Norris  fully  enlightened)  "Besides,  //  didn't 
live  to  be  born  and  there's  hope  for  her,  if  she  can  be  roused,  if 
she  can  be  made  to  feel  that  there's  anything  to  live  for — that 
life  will  be  kind  toward  her.  Her  trouble  has  sort  of  forced  her 
intelligence  and  she  is  a  child-woman  suffering  with  all  the  sen 
sitiveness  of  both  natures.  She  spoke  of  you,  that's  the  reason 
I  mentioned  her." 

"Oh,  say,  did  she  though? — poor,  little  kid!"  said  Norris. 


132  THE     CLAW 

"She  spoke  of  you  to  Duncan,  too.  He  knows  her.  She  was  a 
sister  of  his  chum  back  in  Yale.  Duncan  and  I  are  her  only 
friends  here — and  you.  We've  been  trying  to  cheer  her  up  and 
help  her  live.  We  thought  maybe  you  would  help  us.  She 
spoke  as  though  she  was  rather  fond  of  you." 

"Say,  did  she?"  asked  Norris,  eagerly.  "Well  I'll  sure  do 
all  I  can.  Go  an'  see  her  or  do  anything  you  like." 

"That's  good.  She's  at  the  Good  Samaritan  Hospital  and 
you  can  go  out  with  me  to-morrow  night  if  you  will." 

The  enlisting  of  Norris  in  Glad's  cause  proved  an  inspiration. 
The  suggestion  that  he  call  was  first  made  by  Marlinee.  Glad 
shrank  back,  in  dismay. 

"No,"  she  said — "Oh,  no!"  her  hand  went  up  to  her  face  in  a 
frightened  way,  as  though  warding  off  something.  Her 
sensitiveness,  her  involuntary  assigning  of  herself  to  the  position 
of  one  scorned,  abhorred,  was  a  pathetic  characteristic  of  her 
mental  condition.  It  showed  how  deep  and  vital  bad  been  the 
blow  to  her  self-respect. 

"He  would  know,  he  would  despise  me  and  I  couldn't  stand 
it — I  liked  him."  Her  eyes  filled  with  the  tears,  that  were 
always  just  below  the  surface.  She  looked  very  babyish  and 
appealing  in  her  distress  and  Marlinee  embraced  her  with  a 
quick  maternal  caress. 

"Darling— don't  feel  so!  Norris  couldn't  hate  you.  He 
couldn't  hate  anyone,  he's  such  a  dear  boy!  Beside,  he  knows 
about  it  already."  She  felt  Glad  tremble  and  her  little  hands 
tighten  in  a  frightened  way  upon  her.  "He  feels  terribly  about 
it  for  he  likes  you.  He  feels  sort  of  to  blame,  too,  for  having 
frightened  you  once,  and  for  not  having  warned  you  of  this 
man." 

"Oh!"  Glad  gave  a  little  trembling  sigh  of  relief  and  Marlinee 
l?,id  h?r  back  gently  and  eased  the  pillows  under  her  head. 

"He  mustn't  feel  that  wray,"  protested  Glad,  "he  wasn't  to 


THE    CLAW  I:M 

blame  really.  He  was  very  dear  and  sweet  and  I  was  silly. 
It  was  my  fault  anyway;  I  teased  him.  He  was  good  to  me 
and  if  I  hadn't  been  foolish  and  gotten  mad  at  him  I  wouldn't 
have  had  anything  to  do  with  the  other,  perhaps,  and  everything 
would  have  been  all  right."  The  tears  were  coming,  now, 
dropping  slowly  from  beneath  her  closed  lids.  Marlinee  kissed 
her  impetuously  and  held  her  soft  little  hand  in  hers,  smoothing 
it  gently  as  she  talked.  Glad  seemed  to  be  always  slipping 
away  from  them  and  to  need  to  be  kissed  back  into  life. 

"  Any  way  dear,  he's  coming  in  just  fifteen  minutes — so  you 
mustn't  cry  any  more  and  you  must  sit  up  and  let  me  fix  your 
hair  in  the  prettiest  way  possible  and  put  on  the  scrumptious 
little  pink  kimona  T  bought  for  you  yesterday." 

There  was  no  resisting  Norris.  He  left  not  a  moment  for 
self-consciousness.  From  the  door,  he  jollied  her.  He  sat 
down  on  the  edge  of  the  bed  and  "rubbered"  ostentatiously  at 
the  new  kimona,  holding  the  timid  little  hand  Glad  gave  him 
deliberately,  between  both  his  own.  He  pronounced  the  new 
kimona  a  "peach"  and  the  girl  inside  it  of  similiar  quality.  He 
flung  himself  into  a  chair  and  inspected  with  attention  the 
objects  on  the  stand  near  by,  sniffing  at  the  medicine  bottles, 
dashing  through  the  magazines  and  prying  hopefully  into  a 
candy  box  with  disappointing  results.  That  reminded  him  that 
he  had  brought  some,  himself,  and  he  produced  it  and  shelled 
the  caramels  for  Glad,  pushing  them  into  her  resisting  little 
mouth  when  politeness  prompted  her  refusal  of  more.  He 
stayed  just  fifteen  minutes,  but  his  visit  was  so  salutary  that 
the  patient  surprised  the  nurse  by  her  appetite  at  supper  and 
fell  asleep  early  with  a  smile  on  her  face  and  a  faint  flush  on  her 
cheeks  instead  of  tears. 

And  Glad  continued  to  improve,  with  short  relapses.  She 
anticipated  Norris'  frequent  calls  with  flushed  and  happy 
expectancy,  but  sometimes  in  his  presence,  fell  into  the  same 


134  THE    CLAW 

pathetic  revery  as  with  her  other  friends  and  always  she  re 
ceived  him,  and  his  ardor,  his  raillery  and  his  increasingly 
affectionate  attentions,  with  a  distantness,  a  voluntary  reserve, 
designed  apparently  to  remind  him  of  the  experiences  through 
which  she  had  passed  and  the  impossibility  of  any  real  renewal 
of  their  former  relations. 

Marlinee  regretted  Glad's  supersensitiveness,  while  appre 
ciating  it.  In  her  enthusiasm  she  would  have  had  no  barrier 
put  in  the  way  of  Norris'  evident  and  increasing  regard  for  the 
girl.  Tilings  were  going  exactly  as  she  had  anticipated  and 
planned  and  she  was  delighted.  Duncan,  however,  was  glad 
for  the  child's  attitude.  It  showed  more  strength  of  character 
than  he  had  expected  in  her  and  guarded  Norris  against  tempta 
tion  to  his  sufficiently  ardent  and  quixotic  temper.  If  he  over 
ruled  the  girl's  discretion  and  won  her,  the  responsibility  would 
be  his.  Duncan  did  not  want  that  responsibility  himself. 
Norris  was  young  and  his  impetuosity  now,  might  suggest  what 
his  later  judgment  would  have  rejected.  He  hoped  earnestly 
that  there  might  be  no  unhappy  results  from  Marlinee' s  having 
br ought  them  together.  His  own  affairs  called  for  his  time 
and  with  Glad  improving  he  turned  the  child's  interests  largely 
over  to  Norris  and  Marlinee.  He  had  the  matter  of  Blythe's 
proposed  partnership  to  decide  upon  and  another  and  still  more 
engrossing  interest:  Corinne. 

His  love  for  the  latter  was  in  no  way  compromised  by  his 
platonic  intercourse  with  Marlinee.  Marlinee  was  his  friend, 
his  little  sister.  Corinne  understood  the  relationship,  though, 
as  a  matter  of  fact,  Corrine  failed  to  recognize  it  with  cordiality. 
It  was  the  only  flaw  he  recognized  in  Corinne's  perfection — her 
attitude  toward  Marlinee.  He  could  have  wished  she  might 
have  shown  more  graciousness  toward  her. 

There  was  in  reality  a  subtler  antagonism  between  the  two 
girls,  the  primal  antagonism  of  sex.  They  were  the  antipodes 


THE    CLAW  135 

in  every  physical  and  moral  qualit}r.  Each  was  a  type  of  super- 
culture  of  the  times:  Corinne,  that  of  the  material,  Marlinee, 
the  spiritual.  Corinne's  manner  of  life  catered  to  the  senses; 
she  represented  the  race  of  pampered  women,  whose  lives  are 
smoothed  by  bodily  luxuries,  and  serving  hands.  She  was 
exotic,  languorous  and  beautiful. 

Marlinee  came  from  a  family  who  toiled  with  hand  and 
brain.  Her  delicacy  was  more  of  temperament  than  of  body. 
Her  slender  form  held  an  endurance  wanting  in  more  robust 
individuals.  Her  spirit  was  the  energy  of  her  being.  Yet  the 
primal  instincts  in  the  super-idealistic  girl  were  healthy.  She 
was  less  passionate  than  Corinne,  but  more  normal;  possessed 
of  the  sex  need  not  only  of  conquest  but  of  family  and  offspring. 
There  was  little  of  the  vanity  of  coquetry  in  her. 

The  subjugation  of  Duncan's  youthful  mind  by  Corinne  had 
been  complete.  Before  his  daring  ambitions  toward  her  had 
developed  he  had  considered  her  from  his  obscurity  with  an 
admiration  that  found  no  source  of  expression.  The  luxurious 
little  girl  in  her  rich  frocks  and  beribboned  curls  had  been  his 
youthful  dream.  She  embodied  all  glamor,  richness  and 
romance.  From  his  obscurity  he  worshipped  as  a  votary  at  a 
distant  shrine.  She  seemed  utterly  beyond  and  above  him. 
He  saw  other  boys  approach  her  with  awe.  Douglas  handing 
her  into  the  pony  cart,  or  riding  beside  her  in  free  and  easy 
comradship  rilled  him  with  wonder  and  admiration  of  his 
brother's  daring. 

Duncan  confided  his  heart  affairs  to  no  one,  not  even  Marlinee. 
It  was  not  that  he  felt  the  least  embarrassment  between  the 
friendship  of  the  two  girls.  He  lacked  the  egotism  of  most  men 
that  would  have  conceived  a  rivalry.  Marlinee  and  Corinne 
supplied  in  his  life,  so  long  barren,  two  needs,  the  former 
comfort- — the  latter  luxury. 


CHAPTER  SIXTEEN 

In  the  following  weeks  Duncan  visited  almost  all  the  establish 
ments  in  which  Blythe  had  an  interest.  To  many  of  them  he 
went  alone,  with  carte  blanc  from  the  latter  to  investigate  every 
department  thoroughly.  Blythe  himself  showed  him  through  a 
number  and  on  these  occasions  Duncan  received  the  benefit 
of  that  large  knowledge  and  shrewd  business  sense  that  had 
made  the  man's  success. 

Had  there  been  no  other  object  in  view  than  an  educational 
one  Duncan -would  have  felt  the  time  well  spent.  He  had 
liked  Blythe  less  than  any  of  his  father's  friends.  A  certain 
crudeness  about  him,  a  blatant  egotism,  jarred  on  his  sensibilities 
but  he  was  ready,  by  the  time  their  tour  of  inspection  was  over, 
to  acknowledge  that  Blythe  had  some  cause  for  his  conceit. 
And  Blythe  had,  on  these  trips,  exhibited  a  geniality  very 
ingratiating,  a  power  of  entertainment  quite  unexpected.  He 
had  related  to  Duncan  the  story  of  his  own  life  which  was 
practically  identical  with  the  story  of  the  wine  industry  in 
California. 

He  hadn't  started  out  to  be  a  wine  man.  He  had  originally 
herded  a  bunch  of  sheep  on  a  few  acres  of  land  he  owned  in  the 
foothills  and  had  for  a  time  about  as  hard  picking  as  the  sheep. 
But  the  sheep  multiplied  and  he  bought  more  land.  Then 
somebody  said  his  land  would  bring  more  in  vineyard  acreage 
and  told  him  about  the  wonderful  prospects  of  a  big  California 
wine  industry,  a  market  for  American  supply. 

He  knew  there  was  money  in  the  liquor  business.  He  had 
parted  with  a  good  deal,  himself,  at  the  Riverdale  saloons,  when 
he  went  to  town.  He  never  begrudged  the  saloons  a  cent.  He 
had  an  iron  constitution  provided  for  by  the  hills  and  hardy 
Yankee  stock.  Wine,  he  knew  must,  since  it  was  a  gentleman's 


THE    CLAW  137 

drink,  bring  a  lot  more  money  than  beer  or  whisky  and  it 
seemed  as  if  the  man  that  grew  the  grapes  to  make  the  wine 
might  have  a  good  thing.  He  turned  a  few  acres  of  his  land  over 
into  vineyard,  still  holding  his  sheep,  however.  At  first  there 
was  something  in  it,  then  the  California  Wine  Association 
gained  control.  He  joined  his  neighbors  in  the  co-operative 
association  organized  at  Cameron's  place,  that  had  met  the 
fate  of  most  of  the  "Co-ops"  and,  shortly,  was  forced  to  throw 
up  the  sponge. 

In  his  skirmishes  with  the  Wine  Association,  however,  he 
had  learned  something,  namely,  that  he  was  on  the  wrong 
truck,  in  the  wrong  branch  of  the  liquor  business  for  money 
making  purposes.  There  was  money  in  it,  but  not  as  a  pro 
ducer.  Therefore  he  took  rapid  steps  to  enter  the  right  line. 
He  was  possessed  of  no  fool's  ide?,ls,  like  Cameron,  that  kept 
him  at  a  business  that  wouldn't  pay,  just  because  he  had 
started  at  it.  He  had  been  beaten  in  his  game  against  big 
business  and  he  decided  to  follow  exactly  the  couise  suggested 
by  Whitten  to  the  Missourian:  to  sit  in  with  the  winners  at 
their  own  game. 

He  sold  the  few  a'cres  of  vineyard  he  had,  together  with  most 
of  his  land,  at  excellent  profit,  to  individuals  still  possessed  of 
the  delusion  that  there  was  money  in  wine  grape  growing.  He 
kept  his  serviceable  bunch  of  sheep  all  this  time  and  had  an 
enviable  bank  account  as  a  result.  He  invested  this,  some  of  it, 
in  California  Wine  Association  stock,  and  a  lot  of  it  in  other 
lines  of  the  liquor  business,  the  dividends  of  which  were  worth 
while.  He  had  wholesale  houses  at  San  Francisco,  Stockton 
and  Sacramento  and  up  and  down  the  valley,  also  at  Los 
Angeles.  He  owned  saloons  in  each  city,  together  with  his  new 
enterprises,  the  cafes,  cabarets  and  other  refreshment  places. 
He  had  an  interest  in  almost  all  of  the  independent  wineries,  the 
few  that  had  survived  in  the  fight  against  the  wine  trust. 


138  THE     CLAW 

Between  these  and  the  latter,  existed  a  compromise,  a  com 
promise  that  practically  amounted  to  an  alliance.  In  every 
case  the  so-called  independents  held  contracts  with  the  monoply 
by  which  they  disposed  of  their  goods  to  the  latter. 

The  trust  had  won.  It  held,  hard  and  fast,  the  lines  of  the 
entire  wine  business  of  California.  The  independents  were  the 
children  playing  with  the  ends  of  the  lines  and  the  grower  sat 
on  the  fence  and  watched  the  wagon  go  by.  He  didn't  even  get 
a  ride,  for,  more  and  more,  as  Mr.  Cummings  had  indicated,  the 
production  itself  was  in  the  hands  of  the  trust,  either  by  means 
of  its  own  increasing  vineyards  or  the  vineyard  owners  to  whom 
it  had  loaned  money. 

This  was  the  story  painted  in  Blythe's  picturesque  phrase 
ology,  for  the  sheep  herder  was  apt  to  emerge  and  banish  the 
millionaire  when  Blythe  was  engaged  in  self -discourse.  It  was  a 
story,  in  reality,  known  to  Duncan  before,  and  one  that  held 
an  immense  fascination,  for  romance  lives  in  the  commercial 
struggle  as  well  as  in  physical  warfare.  Blythe,  Cummings 
and  their  fellows  had  surrendered,  but  as  peers  of  the  conquerors. 
They  had  shown  on  the  field  of  commercial  battle  the  prowess 
equal  to  their  enemy,  the  keenness,  the  foresight,  the  strategic 
genius  required  by  commercial  war.  What  they  had  lacked 
was  the  required  armament  to  make  the  fight  win,  namely, 
capital,  combination  of  capital. 

So  Blythe  was  now  with  the  Survivors,  the  commercially  fit, 
and  Duncan  was  bidden  to  join  these  brave,  battle-hardened 
veterans.  He  was  filled  with  pride  and  happiness  at  the  honor. 
The  issue  had  changed.  He  thought,  with  regret,  of  the 
vineyard  and  of  his  father's  ideals  for  it,  of  the  gentle  un- 
worldliness  of  the  latter's  visions.  But  his  father  had  not  lived 
into  his  son's  time,  the  time  that  called  for  a  ready  eye,  and  :i 
strong 'fist,  the  equipment  of  a  fighter,  instead  of  a  dreamer. 
His  father  would  not  have  deterred  him,  he  would,  himself, 


THE    CLAW  I'M 

have  recognized  the  change  in  the  times  and  that  the  way  to  a 
name  and  a  place  was  by  a  different  path  than  that  taken  half 
a  century  before.  His  father,  like  Mr.  Cummings  would 
wish  him  God-speed  in  his  new  departure. 

These  trips  with  Blythe,  were  not  only  educationally  stimu 
lating,  they  were  a  holiday,  recalling  Duncan's  boyhood  days 
and  associations.  The  wineries  had  always  held  a  fascination 
for  him,  the  great  buildings,  in  the  wine  making  season,  seething 
with  activity  and  the  confusion  of  rich  odors,  the  loads  of  grapes 
moving  from  all  directions  along  the  country  roads,  industrial 
streams  flowing  toward  one  yawning  intake,  the  days  breathing 
urgency,  wholesome  activity  and  the  fellowship  of  many 
workers.  But  the  dead  season  of  the  wineries  held  equal 
interest  for  Duncan  as  a  child.  A  mystery  invested  the  big- 
storage  sheds  as  they  stood,  silent,  day  after  day,  month  after 
month,  under  the  brooding  sun  or  the  driving  rains;  a  little 
languid  movement  in  office  and  warehouse.  One  stepped 
inside  and  looked  down  the  far,  dim  vistas,  richly  redolent  of 
the  vintage  within,  stored  in  mammoth  tanks,  roof-high,  that 
stood  in  parallel  rows  like  rotund  giants,  dreaming  on  sentinel 
line. 

"And  they'd  put  all  this  out  of  business!"  exclaimed  Blythe. 
They  were  in  the  store  house  of  one  of  the  oldest  plants  of  the 
valley,  whose  solid  oak  tanks,  staring  at  them  like  dish-faced 
dwarfs,  read  1882.  "Throw  it  all  out,  the  contents  and  equip 
ment  of  the  entire  plant,  and  of  all  the  plants  of  the  state  that 
represent  over  a  million  dollars  worth  of  property,  a  life  time  of 
work  and  industry  and  fight,  and  the  wages  of  thousands  of 
men;  throw  it  all  out  like  so  much  junk  on  the  scrap  pile! 
These  prohibitionists — they  have  the  intellect  of  a  pea-nut  and 
the  heart  of  a  parsnip!" 

In  the  mind  of  Duncan  the  same  significance  had  been  growing 
as  day  after  day  he  was  reminded  of  the  value  and  importance 


140  THE     CLAW 

of  the  business.  These  things  had  been  a  part  of  his  knowledge 
always,  since  he  had  been  old  enough  to  know  the  industry, 
and  necessarily  it  was  the  economic  arguments  of  the  wine 
business  he  had  wielded  in  his  persuasion  of  the  congressmen. 
But  to  see  the  thing  with  his  own  eyes,  as  represented  in  the 
many  plants  and  business  houses  visited,  was  impressive. 

Yet  in  view  of  the  possible  catastrophe— the  passing  of  the 
Dry  amendment,  he  had  thought  .with  relief,  that  the  equipment 
of  the  wineries  and  breweries  was  not  as  valuable  as  the  machin 
ery  employed  in  most  manufactories,  nor,  he  was  forced  to 
admit,  were  the  numbers  given  employment  as  high  as  might  be 
expected  from  a  business  of  such  scale.  Also  there  was  no 
such  technical  skill  and  specialized  knowledge  required  by  the 
workers  in  the  wine  and  liquor  business  as  in  the  textile  mills, 
the  glass  or  furniture  factories  which  held  complicated  and 
delicate  machinery,  calling  for  the  employment  of  skilled  work 
men,  the  men  whose  education  and  habits  made  specialization. 
The  brewery  worker  or  winery  hand  could  find  employment  for 
his  brain  and  muscle  anywhere,  in  field  or  warehouse;  the  bar 
keeper  ought  to  make  a  good  restuarant  man,  or  seller  of  retail 
goods  of  any  sort.  In  the  fruit  orchards  sufficient  white  help 
was  not  obtainable.  He  had  been  put  to  it,  to  keep  his  rule 
of  employing  only  Americans  or  men  American  by  birth,  as 
were  his  Mexican  help.  The  argument  concerning  labor,  was, 
he  admitted,  weak,  and  he  had  put  little  stress  upon  it. 

Another  thing  worried  him  a  bit.  A  reconsideration  of  his 
own  financial  figures  used  at  Washington,  in  the  zeal  of  his 
campaign,  including  the  estimate  of  property  rendered  worthless 
should  the  amendment  carry,  proved  that  they  were  somewhat 
exaggerated.  He  had  used  the  figures  forwarded  him  by  the 
California  Wine  Association  and  had  supposed  them  to  be 
correct  but  when  he  came  to  consider  them  calmly  he  found  a 
serious  error.  State-wide  prohibition,  serious  as  it  would  be 


THE    CLAW  141 

to  the  liquor  interests,  did  not  mean  that  $150,000,000  worth 
of  property,  would  be  made  worthless,  as  claimed  by  the  Wets. 
Nor  would  170,000  acres  of  land  be  left  valueless.  Such  talk, 
if  it  was  from  his  side,  if  he  bad  used  it,  was  nosense.  It  failed 
to  take  into  consideration  the  value  of  the  wine  people's  property 
for  other  purposes.  Buildings  and  real  estate  would  not  be 
destroyed  by  state  wide  prohibition  as  by  a  fire.  The  acreage 
in  vineyards  could  be  used  to  even  better  advantage, 
in  the  raising  of  table  grapes,  raisin  grapes  and  deciduous  fruits, 
at  the  present  price  paid  the  wine  grape  grower  for  his  product. 
The  increasing  acreage  of  these  products  throughout  the  valley, 
where  once  wine  grapes  had  been  grown,  proved  that. 

He  felt  annoyed  at  his  use  of  the  exaggerations;  he  did  not 
care  to  win  by  falsity.  There  were  enough  reasons  for  the 
continuation  of  the  industry  without  the  use  of  overdrawn 
arguments.  His  own  personal  arguments  for  the  industry  and 
the  privilege  of  drinking  was  that  of  " personal  liberty,"  the 
injustice  and  foolishness  of  people  legislating  out  a  custom  of 
pleasure  and  benefit  to  the  many,  because  some  were  too  weak 
to  make  use  of  it  with,  discretion.  He  spoke  to  Blythe  now,  of 
the  discrepancies  in  the  financial  argument : 

"Hum — that  so?  I  hadn't  noticed  it.  Well,  never  mind. 
The  prohibitionists  inflate  their  figures,  all  right.  All  this 
sentimental  gush  of  theirs  about  the  poor  drunkard  and  his 
family  is  overdrawn  and  they  know  it." 

"I  don't  know  about  that,"  said  Duncan,  thoughtfully.  "I 
have  always  been  willing  to  concede  the  prohibitionists  their 
viewpoint,  based  on  certain  undebatable  facts,  the  same  as 
ours.  Those  particular  facts  have  been  brought  to  my  notice 
in  a  most  unhappy  way  recently.  Seems  funny— just  fresh 
from  a  v'ctory  for  our  side  these  things  have  fairly  been  rubbed 
into  me  lately— to  put  the  case  far  too  lightly.  One  thing  after 


142  THE     CLAW 

another  has  happened  in  a  straight  stretch — Morton,  Antonio 
and  the  case  of  which  I  spoke  to  you  the  other  day. 

"Don't  misunderstand  me.  I'm  not  ready  to  say,  by  any 
means,  that  because  some  weaklings  come  to  grief — and  terrible 
grief — through  the  misuse  of  this  thing  that  an  institution  that 
has  contributed  to  the  happiness  and  welfare  of  so  many  people, 
intrinsically  and  by  the  industry,  should  be  wiped  out.  But 
it's  no  wonder,  taking  specific  cases  such  as  I've  had  to  consider 
lately,  that  over-emotional  people  size  the  thing  up  that  way 
and  say  it's  prohibition  or  nothing.  The  fact  is,  there's  a  lot  to 
be  said  on  their  side.  Human  life  is  something  to  think  of  as 
opposed  to  business,  and  certain  sacrifices  are  demanded  by  the 
strong." 

"Well,  what  would  you  say?"  asked  Blythe  with  some 
impatience. 

"Why,  I'd  say  that  we,  who  are  responsible  for  the  industry, 
should  put  a  lot  more  safe-guards  around  it.  We  should  not 
leave  it  to  the  reformers  to  do.  And  we  should  see  that  the  laws 
we  already  have  are  enforced.  Here  in  three  cases  in  which 
I'm  more  or  less  involved  are  three  direct  infractions  of  the 
law;  goo d  laws,  too,  I  consider  them,  if  they  were  put  on  us  by 
the  other  side.  Here's  Bernardini  doing  practically  a  retail 
business  out  on  his  winery  and  debauching  the  whole  neighbor 
hood,  encouraging  boot-legging  by  that  neat  evasion  such  men 
have,  nothing  less  than  two  gallons  at  a  time,  and  that 
delivered  direct  to  the  family  by  an  employee,  but  you  know  the 
trick.  Morton  signs  up  for  the  delivery  on  the  spot  and  totes 
the  goods  off  across  the  road  where  the  help  booze  on  it. 

"That  business  was  directly  responsible  for  Antonio's  drunk 
and  the  Hindoo's  death.  When  I  got  the  whole  story,  I  fired 
Morton.  It  was  the  least  I  could  do,  but  it  was  hard.  He's 
been  in  our  family  for  years  and  married  one  of  the  finest  girls 


THE    CLAW  143 

in  the  country — she  was  from  my  mother's  home   in  Scotland. 
It  makes  me  sick  when  I  think  of  her  and  the  children. 

"And  then  this  little  girl  I  told  you  about.  There's  another 
vicious,  damnable  association  we've  got  to  get  rid  of  in  the  liquor 
business.  If  I  thought  I  d  ever  come  to  where  I'd  draw  an 
income  that  included  in  it  the  debauching  of  young  girls  I'd 
go  and  hang  myself  right  now!"  He  spoke  with  all  the  con 
centrated  scorn  he  felt;  Glad's  wan  little  face,  with  it's  ex 
pression  of  misery  haunted  him. 

Blythe  eyed  him  covertly.  The  boy's  grim  mouth  and  set 
jaw,the  first  unconsciously  clenched — here  was  a  man  of  motive 
and  purpose,  of  emotional  capacity — "a  damned  amount  of 
emotion  he  took  from  his  sentimental,  highstrung  dad,"  Blythe 
meditated.  He  had  never  liked  Cameron.  His  superiority 
irritated  him.  He  felt  uneasy  in  his  presence.  What  virtues 
he,  himself,  had — his  shrewdness  and  practical  ability- 
seemed  deprecated  by  Cameron's  brilliancy  and  refinement. 
He  was  jealous  of  the  man's  gifts  while  he  held  in  contempt  his 
idealism,  his  lack  of  the  worldly  motive.  It  was  not  for  love  of 
Cameron  that  he  had  made  the  offer  to  Duncan  of  his  partner 
ship.  His  motive  was  one  of  cold  business  foresight;  the 
recognition  of  just  those  qualities  of  strength  that  seemed  about 
to  evade  him.  He  read  Duncan  better  than  himself  and  under 
stood  the  tugging  of  those  admirable  qualities  of  sympathy, 
chivalry  and  altruism  that  characterized  the  father.  He  must 
have  a  care.  He  must  try  on  this  opportunity  of  close  asso 
ciation  to  turn  Duncan's  mind  into  safer  channels.  Com 
promise  might  do  something. 

"It  was  a  damned  devilish  thing,"  he  agreed.  You  say  she 
was  j»  good  girl,  straight  and  all  right?  You  know  these 
women,  they're  devilish  deceitful  some  times.  You  can't 
always  tell."  Duncan  was  offended. 

"I'm  very  certain  of  this  child,"  he  said  with  dignity.     "I 


144  THE     CLAW 

know  her  family,  at  least  her  brother.  He  was  my  room-mate 
at  Yale.  I  used  to  see  her  in  her  home.  She  was  a  beautiful 
little  creature,  of  perfect  breeding  and  with  the  unsuspecting 
innocence  that  would  permit  of  just  this  sort  of  catastrophe.  I 
want  to  find  the  man,  that's  all,  I  just  want  to  get  my  hands  on 
him  once!" 

"There'd  be  a  funeral — say?"  Blythe  laughed.  He  was 
trying  to  be  sympathetic.  Duncan  did  riot  answer.  Again 
he  had  shown  more  of  his  emotions  and  revealed  more  of  Glad's 
story  than  he  intended. 

"You  say  that  happened  at  the  Parisian?"  asked  Blythe, 
suddenly.  "Well,  I  happen  to  own  an  interest  in  the  Parisian 
and  I'll  confess  that  this  is  wholly  new  to  me.  I'll  tell  you 
what  I'll  do,"  he  continued,  with  largeness.  I'll  investigate 
this  matter.  I  sure  will  and  I'll  see  that  this  sort  of  thing  doesn't 
happen  again.  We  can't  afford  it,  let  alone  the  wrong  of  it. 
It  won't  do.  I  put  my  money  into  the  proposition  with  the 
idea  that  it  would  be  run  on  a  high-class,  strictly  moral  basis. 
I'm  indebted  to  you  for  telling  me  about  this,  really.  I'm 
confoundedly  sorry  about  the  little  girl,  too,"  he  added  with 
real  feeling.  Duncan  felt  easier.  There  was  no  reason,  after 
all,  why  he  should  not  have  made  a  confidant  of  Blythe.  The 
latter  might  be  rather  coarse  and  hold  the  wordly  view-point 
to  excess,  perhaps,  but  he  had  a  good  heart,  and  his  words 
might  result  in  effecting  a  reform  in  the  cafe  that  would  save 
some  other  innocent  girl.  He  was  glad  he  had  spoken. 


CHAPTER  SEVENTEEN 

Duncan,  although  characteristically  reserved  concerning;  his 
own  personal  affairs,  took  the  matter  of  his  offer  from  Blythe 
to  two  friends,  Marlinee  and  Mr.  Cummings.  Habit  incited  his 
confiding  his  prospects  to  the  former,  friendship  and  his  faith 
in  the  latter  as  a  man  of  large  business  knowledge  and  success 
in  his  own  enterprise  incited  him  to  seek  the  counsel  of  the  latter. 
Mr.  Cummings  made  no  effort  to  conceal  his  surprise  and  plea 
sure  at  Duncan's  disclosures. 

"My  boy,  I  congratulate  you!"  he  cried,  gripping  Duncan's 
hand  with  the  friendliness  and  fatherly  affection  so  grateful 
to  the  younger  man.  "This  is  great.  Of  course  you  will  not 
hesitate  to  accept.  I  must  tell  Mrs.  Cummings  and  Corinne — 
you  don't  mind?  They  will  be  as  proud  as  I  am  for  you." 

Duncan  blushed.  He  was  not  wholly  unwordly.  In  the 
background  of  his  thoughts  had  been  the  realization  of  what 
this  sudden  rise  in  his  material  prospects  might  mean  to  his 
heart  ambitions.  But  he  had  not  been  quite  prepared  for  the 
eagerness  with  which  Mr.  Cummings  received  his  news  and  his 
immediate  reference  to  Corinne.  He  had  a  degree  of  personal 
pride  and  would  have  resented  the  idea  of  his  prospects  hanging 
wholly  on  mateiial  conditions.  Yet  he  told  himself  that 
Corinne  had  been  delicately  raised;  money,  luxury,  were 
second  nature  to  her  and  the  proper  demand  of  so  sumptuous 
and  regal  a  young  creature.  Mr.  Cummings  was  right  in 
expecting  of  his  prospective  son-in-law  that  he  make  good  in  a 
wordly  sense. 

"Well,  sit  down — sit  down.  Let's  talk  this  over.  We'll 
leave  the  ladies  till  later,  as  the  dessert  of  the  occasion,"  cried 
Mr.  Cummings,  wheeling  an  easy  chair  up  before  the  large  book- 
strewn  table  of  his  library  where  he  had  led  Duncan. 


146  THE    CLAW 

"So  you  came  to  talk  it  over  and  ask  my  advice.  Well,  I've 
given  it  to  you.  Go  at  it,  my  boy,  you  are  on  the  right  track- — 
the  only  one,  I  may  add.  I  want  to  say  that  I've  had  you  in 
mind  for  a  long  time.  I  wanted  to  do  something  myself, 
Duncan,  to  help  you  out  of  your  financial  difficulties  and  give 
you  the  start  that  your  ability  and  powers  deserve,  but  it  was 
impossible.  I  don't  know  that  you  know  what  a  fight  I've 
made  for  what  I've  got."  Mr.  Cummings  was  one  of  the  few 
independents  who  retained  his  original  business  under  his  own 
name.  " Within  two  weeks  I  will  have  given  up  the  game — 
sold  out  to  the  California  Wine  Association.  They'll  take  over 
my  business  for  a  generous  consideration,  and  a  block  of  stock 
in  their  organization  and  I'll  assume  the  innocuous  role  of 
retired  wine  maker  and  viticulture  list,  practically  the  same  as 
the  one  you  consider,  only  you  come  out  better.  By  Blythe's 
generosity  your  name  becomes  associated  with  one  of  the  biggest 
liquor  men  in  the  state,  biggest  in  point  of  financial  standing, 
influence  and  all  round  administrative  ability.  Don't  hesitate 
a  moment,  my  boy.  Your  father  wouldn't  ask  you  to.  You 
relinquish  his  vineyard  ambition  to  write  his  name  big  and 
ineffacably  on  the  role  of  great  business  accomplishments  in 
this  country. 

"And  its  the  only  way,  as  I  said  before,  by  all  the  tendencies 
of  the  times  and  the  experience  of  the  wine  industry  in  particular. 
There  is  nothing  in  it  for  the  grower,  nothing  for  the  independent 
wine-maker.  Consolidation,  co-operation  of  big  business  is 
the  watchword  today.  I'ts  inevitable  in  our  business  and  the 
only  road  to  success.  The  little  man  has  to  go.  It  seems  hard 
but  it's  the  old  story.  It's  nature's  law  and  as  such,  is  surely 
good." 

Duncan  pondered  and  his  face  showed  doubt.  He  was  no 
Socialist.  He  held  their  altruistic  doctrines  in  some  scorn  and 
all  his  prejudices  and  tendencies  were  on  the  side  of  the  bigger 


THE    CLAW  147 

man.  He  belonged  to  one  of  the  families  of  the  financial  con 
querors,  in  whom  wealth  and  brains  had  served  to  outstrip  their 
fellows  and  seize  the  advantages  of  each  generation  to  pass 
them  on  to  the  next  generation.  Even  now  he  admired 
that  struggle  in  the  person  of  Blythe  and  Cummings  whose 
surrender  was  only  that  of  compromise. 

But  this  doctrine  was  different — the  antithesis  of  the  Social 
ists'  theory.  He  was  not  prepared  for  this,  either,  for  it  meant 
by  the  consolidation  of  the  forces  of  the  conquerors  and  their 
resources  the  elimination  of  personal  prowess — of  brain  pitted 
against  brain  in  fair  fight.  Enunciated  in  the  person  of  this 
humane,  kindly  man — it  was  incongruous,  distasteful.  Cum 
mings  read  his  thought  in  his  eyes  and  continued. 

"This  doctrine  of  the  equalization  of  opportunity  and  of 
wealth,  you  and  I  know  is  all  nonsense.  The  man  with  the 
brain  will  make  the  get  away,  every  time,  give  him  half  a 
chance.  It  isn't  the  money  or  the  power,  its  brains,  man's 
resourceful  brains.  I  heard  a  politician  the  other  day — not  a 
Socialist,  by  the  way^-trying  to  prove  that  it  was  the  laws, 
wrong  laws,  that  provided  for  monoply,  for  much  of  our  once 
public  lands  being  in  private  or  corporation  hands.  He  cited 
the  instance  of  the  grants  made  to  the  Northern  Pacific  Railroad 
and  to  the  Southern  Pacific,  by  which  the  Government  parted 
with  oil  bearing  and  other  valuable  lands.  'Now  there/  he  said, 
4s  a  case  of  laws,  wrong  laws,  permitting  the  monoply  of  public 
resources.  You'll  have  to  get  after  the  law  makers,  get  men 
who  will  make  right  laws,  and  everything  will  be  all  right.'  In 
other  words,  presumably,  vote  for  him  and  his  fellow  candidates 
of  the  'out'  party.  And  the  funny  part  of  it  was  that  every 
case  he  cited  proved  conclusively  the  triumph  of  the  mind  of  the 
individual  behind  the  law,  the  mind  of  the  man  who  plotted  to 
have  men  make  the  law  to  his  advantage  and  keep  it  on  the 
statute  books  against  the  protest  of  the  people;  the  vivid,  un- 


148  THE    CLAW 

tiring,  all  conquering,  all  resourceful  personality  of  the  men  in 
the  corporation,  working  inexorably  to  accomplish  their  end. 

"Brains  will  win  every  time,  and  the  men  with  superior 
brains  will  put  the  strength,  of  those  brains  together  to  win. 
But  it  works  out  for  good  to  all  in  the  long  run.  If  the  little 
man  can't  make  money  by  running  a  little  store,  he  can,  by 
working  for  the  man  with  the  big  Store  and  he  can  save  money 
by  patronizing  the  big  company  that,  by  running  a  big  business, 
can  afford  to  put  the  goods  down  to  the  little  man's  price." 

"But  suppose  they  don't  put  the  goods  down  to  where  the 
little  man  can  reach  them?"  interposed  Duncan,  "That's  the 
trouble!" 

"Why,  there's  just  the  chance  for  men  like  you  to  get  in  your 
work.  You  in  the  big  business  and  /  in  the  big  business  can 
keep  that  business  within  bounds;  can  say  that  our  power  shall 
not  be  used  at  the  expense  of  our  patrons — by  putting  our 
prices  up.  Combination  and  control  accomplishes  wealth 
for  the  big  interest  even  at  reasonable  price  of  retail  goods." 

"Sure!  And  if  the  big  liquor  interests  would  let  some  of  the 
surplus  get  by  to  the  producer,  you  could  have  stayed  in 
business  as  an  independent  and  I  as  a  grower!"  cried  Dunca,n, 
with  spirit.  "Wloy  notT' 

"Why  not,  my  boy?  Just  because  of  what  I  have  been  saying. 
Brains  will  build,  brains  will  co-operate  with  brains  for  the  good 
of  themselves — for  the  ultimate  good  of  all.  One-half  the 
world  is  meant  to  servre  the  other  half.  The  men  who  serve 
and  those  who  are  served  are  equally  benefited,  or  rather  the 
terms  are  interchangeable;  it  doesn't  make  any  difference 
whether  you  and  I  are  the  big  men  or  the  little  men,  we  belong 
to  the  splendid  co-operative  concern  of  the  Almighty  and  He 
looks  on  his  work  and  apparently  calls  it  good." 

Duncan  pondered  the  proposition.  It.  was  keenly  put  and  in 
many  ways  it  was  sound. 


THE    CLAW  149 

"No,  Duncan,  my  boy,"  Cummings  was  saying,  "to  return  to 
the  concrete,  there's  nothing  in  the  wine  industry  for  the  grower 
or  the  small  manufacturer.  That  day,  short  enough,  is  passed. 
There  is  money,  big  money,  honest  money,  in  the  wholesale 
business  and  its  accompaniment  of  the  retail.  There  is  money 
in  shares  of  the  California  Wine  Association  and  the  few  strong 
independent  wineries,  so  called." 

"And  the  vineyards;  who  will  grow  the  grapes?" 

"Some  eighty  percent  of  the  wine  grape  vineyards  of  the  state 
are  owned  today  by  the  California  Wine  Association.  In  other 
words,  the  future  production  as  well  as  the  manufacture  and 
sale  of  wine  will  be  in  the  hands  of  the  combination." 

"And  who  will  work  those  vineyards?"  asked  Duncan, 
quickly.  "Mr.  Stoll,  in  the  Fruit  Growers'  Convention  last 
spring  made  the  statement  that  the  problem  of  labor  on  our 
vineyards  would  be  solved  by  the  influx  of  foreign  laborers, 
presumably  low  grade,  cheap  labor,  into  the  state  with  the 
opening  of  the  Panama  Canal.  The  prohibition  people  have 
taken  up  that  statement  and  are  making  capital  of  it  in  this 
campaign  and  with  effect.  I  don't  wonder.  You  and  I  and 
some  of  the  other  independent  growers  have  stood  out  against 
this  cheap  labor,  and  contrary  to  our  own  interests,  have 
insisted  upon  employing  American  labor  when  the  prices  paid 
us  for  our  vineyard  product  made  the  cheapest  labor  obtainable 
a  living  necessity.  On  the  vineyards  owned  by  the  California 
Wine  Association  foreign  help  is  employed  almost  exclusively. 
That's  the  result  of  your  combinations — the  way  co-operative 
capital  is  helping  the  plain  American — the  little  man!"  Mr. 
Cummings  spread  his  hands  with  a  jesture  and  smiled  into 
Duncan's  eager  face. 

"Exactly  so,  my  boy,  and  your  opportunity.  Go  to  it.  Put 
all  your  idealism,  your  reform  ideas  into  this  work  to  which  you 
are  called.  Into  the  establishment  of  an  honest  and  paternal 


150  THE    CLAW 

combination  such  as  the  best  minds  of  the  country  have  dreamed 
and  such  as  is  possible.  Don't  tear  down  and  destroy  the 
sources  of  benefit  and  power  like  some  in  their  ignorance  would 
do.  Build!  Use  your  personality,  you've  got  plenty  of  it. 
Make  other  men  over  into  your  way  of  thinking — don't  let  the 
greedy  man  wield  all  the  power!  Change  the  things  that  are 
wrong  and  establish  right  policies.  Its  a  big  work,  and  a 
possible  one,  if  you  embrace  your  opportunities — Blythe's 
partnership — the  legislature.  Go  to  it  with  all  your  young- 
strength,  and  God  bless  you!" 

Following  the  interview,  the  two  men  sought  the  veranda 
where  the  ladies  were  established  enjoying  the  moonlight  and 
the  evening  breeze. 

"Hear  you,  Ladies,  this  boy  has  some  bully  news!"  cried 
Mr.  Cummings.  "Duncan,  you  tell  them,  I  won't  steal  your 
pleasure."  He  threw  himself  negligently  into  a  porch  rocker 
and  Corinne  made  room  for  Duncan  beside  her.  in  the  broad 
veranda  swing. 

"Well,  its  not  exactly  authentic  news,  yet.  At  least  the 
project  is  still  a  tentative  one,"  he  apologized. 

"Never  mind,  no  mincing  now,  go  ahead,"  prompted  Cum- 
mings.  "No,  I'll  tell  them  myself,  you're  far  too  modest,"  and 
he  related  Blythe's  proposition,  omitting  the  business  details  in 
which  a  woman  might  be  expected  to  lack  interest.  "What  do 
you  know  about  that?"  he  ended,  triumphantly.  The  two 
women  were  beaming  on  Duncan  with  flattering  pleasure  and 
approval. 

"Duncan!"  cried  Corinne.  "Do  you  mean  it?  Why,  I 
can't  believe  its  true.  You  of  all  men,  for  Blythe  to  pick  out!" 
"Why  not  Duncan?"  threw  in  her  father  quickly.  He  wes 
annoyed  at  his  daughter's  unusual  lack  of  tact.  His  loyalities 
were  all  for  the  boy.  "Duncan  never  posed  as  one  of  your 
'rising  young  men'  with  the  smart  assumptions  that 


THE    CLAW  151 

hide  essential  defects.  But  men  know  men  and  choose  them  for 
their  qualities  not  for  their  taste  in  cocktails  and  dress-suits." 

"Why,  I  didn't  mean  that,  father!"  exclaimed  Corinne, 
haughtily,  irritated  both  by  her  own  inadvertant  words  and  her 
father's  rebuke.  "I  meant  that  Duncan  was — I  meant — well, 
just  that  you've  been  saying,"  she  capitulated  with  a  laugh — 
"that  Duncan  is  so  different,  so  much  finer  than  the  others," 
she  continued  speaking  as  though  he  were  not  present  but  with  a 
half  shy  glance  at  him. 

"You  wouldn't  expect  a  man  like  Blythe  to  recognize  his  fine 
points.  Blythe  is  all  right,"  she  hastened  to  add,  "but  he's 
rather — Oh  well,  rather!"  she  gave  a  delicate  shrug  of  her 
shoulders  that  expressed  her  meaning  admirably.  "But  of 
course,"  she  added,  "business  is  another  thing,  quite,  from 
society  and  I  suppose  a  man  of  business,  as  father  says,  is 
trained  in  looking  for  men  even  when  they're  not  quite  fitted 
by  nature  and  breeding  to  discover  the  finer  qualities." 

Her  words  held  a  candid  compliment  and  the  quick  smile 
with  which  she  turned  to  Duncan,  a  smile  in  which  admiration 
was  subtly  compounded  with  an  inference  of  something  new  in 
Duncan  that  commanded  her  woman's  adulation,  comprised  a 
flattery  that  made  his  senses  whirl. 

"And  you  will  take  up  with  the  offer,  of  course,  Duncan? 
You  spoke  as  though  there  was  some  doubt,"  she  concluded. 
Duncan  explained  his  cause  of  hesitation,  which  he  admitted 
had  been  largely  eliminated  by  Mr.  Cummings  unqualified 
encouragement  of  the  project. 

"Oh,  you  must  not  lose  it,"  Corinne  uiged.  Her  voice  was 
low  and  intense  and  she  spoke  with  a  little  air  of  possession  that 
gave  him  a  thrill  of  happiness.  "I  want  you  to  have  it,  its 
your  chance.  I  shall  be  so  proud  of  you,  Duncan!" 

Mr.  Cummings  retired  within  to  finish  his  evening  paper, 
and  Mrs.  Cummings  excused  herself  shortly.  They  were  alone 


152  THE    CLAW 

in  the  fragrant  twilight.  How  beautiful  the  night,  how  sweet 
the  air,  how  full  of  a  deep,  throbbing  happiness  seemed  every 
thing  in  the  bright  whiteness  of  the  broad  landscape  upon  which 
they  looked  from  their  cool  shelter.  The  moon  touched  all 
things  with  the  peculiar  radiance  of  the  California  night,  when 
the  grass  blade,  the  leaves  of  the  trees,  even  the  wings  of  a  night 
owl  that  drifted  hooting  from  a  high  tree,  scintilated  with 
brilliant  light. 

They  talked  quietly,  of  his  plans,  of  the  things  that  had 
happened  while  he  was  away,  of  many  thing  in  desultory 
fnshion,  pausing  often  to  listen  to  the  night  sounds,  to  enjoy 
the  quiet  of  the  still  evening,  to  feel  the  communion  thi't  is 
stronger  in  silence  than  in  words.  He  was  poignantly  con 
scious  of  her  nearness,  of  the  odor  of  the  delicate  perfume  she 
wore,  of  her  hair — a  lock  blowing  suddenly  across  his  forehead 
made  him  start — of  the  instant  touch  of  her  a  moment  when  a 
large  winged  insect  startled  her.  She  seemed  possessed  of  a 
delicate  languor,  that  just  fitted  his  own  mood  and  they  swung 
idly,  the  slighest  effort  providing  dream}'  movement. 

Her  face  smiled  up  at  him  with  a  docility  and  yielding  that  he 
had  never  known  in  her  before.  There  was  almost  appeal  in  it. 
He  had  never  acknowledged  to  himself  but  it  had  always  before 
been  he  who  sued  for  favor:  always  he  who  was  weighed,  in  her 
presence,  and  found  wanting,  kept  subtly  conscious  of  it  b\  ;i. 
certain  haughtiness,  the  slighest  touch  of  tolerance  and  im 
patience.  He  felt  no  criticism.  He  had  deserved  her  past 
indifference,  her  disappointment  and  faint  regard.  He  had 
been  a  slow,  awkward  fellow  with  no  tallents  or  accomplish 
ments  of  speech  or  manner  such  afl  po.-.M-s>ed  by  the  men  who 
paid  her  court.  But  now  things  were  different.  He  remember 
ed  with  ii  thrill  of  pleasure  Mi'ilinee's  candid  words  about  his 
change.  It  was  true.  He  felt  himself  a  man.  He  was.  well 
poised,  resourceful,  and  at  this  moment  he  realized  a  certain 


THE    CLAW  153 

96  of  power  over  the  woman  he  loved  to  impel,  to  subjugate 
and  to  win. 

Yet  he  had  no  intention  of  pressing  his  advantage  at  this 
moment.  It  would  have  seemed  an  ill-bred  thing, 
.iiiing  ;-u  insulting  worldliness  on  the  part  of  Corinne, 
to  have  asked  for  her  hand  now,  as  though  the  first  hint  of 
material  prosperity  assured  her  acceptance  of  him.  He  sat  in  a 
try  nee  of  self-assurance  and  happiness,  certain  by  Corinne's 
changed  attitude,  by  his  own  new  and  surging  impulses  and  the 
promised  fulfilment  of  the  material  conditions  the  worldly 
world  lays  on  a  man,  that  his  desire  was  at  hand. 

She  stood  on  the  veranda  step  to  say  good-night  and  as  she 
passed  down  them  the  boughs  of  a  swinging  rose  vine  caught 
her  hair.  He  turned  back  to  disentangle  it.  The  soft  gold-red 
strands  were  in  his  fingers,  his  face  was  very  near  hers  in  the 
moonlight.  She  put  her  hands  on  his  shoulder,  laughingly,  as 
he  worked,  and  her  breath  was  on  his  face.  He  loosed  the  last 
rich  curl  and  with  it  something  else.  He  seized  her  hands. 

Kiss  me!"  he  said,  holding  her  in  a  grip  that  hurt.  "Kiss 
me!"  She  looked  at  him  wonderingly.  He  took  her  in  his 
arms,  crushing  her  to  him  in  a  kind  of  fierce  madness.  "Kiss 
me!"  he  commanded.  "You  can't  put  your  hands  on  me  like 
that  and  not  kiss  me!"  His  breath  came  short,  he  felt  a  strange 
brutality.  She  laughed  softly,  suddenly  relaxing  in  his  arms 
and  he  kissed  her  fiercely.  Then  he  let  her  go. 

" Good-night!"  he  said,  and  turned  away. 

Going  home  he  was  amazed,  astonished  at  himself  but  not 
regretful.  A  strange  exultation,  a  sense  of  vindication  claiming 
him.  It  lasted  till  he  fell  asleep  that  night  but  in  the  morning, 
in  the  light  of  day,  dismay  and  horror  took  hold  upon  him. 
What  had  he  meant?  What  was  it  loosed  within  him  that 
moment?  What  unspeakable  thing  had  he  done  to  lay  such 
violent  hands  on  this  refined  and  beautiful  girl,  the  woman  he 


154  THE    CLAW 

loved?  He  was  faint  with  the  odiousness,  the  beastliness  of  it. 
He  could  not  have  been  himself.  Something — a  little  too 
much  drink  during  the  day;  he  had  met  a  succession  of  friends 
and  business  men  in  town  with  whom  it  had  seemed  necessary 
to  be  sociable,  he  and  Mr.  Cummings  had  ended  their  talk  with 
wine  and  on  the  veranda  Mrs.  Cummings  had  urged  a  glass 
from  a  rare  bottle  of  old  Burgandy,  from  a  friend,  newly  arrived 
from  abroad;  he  could  not  refuse.  It  was  that,  a  little  unavoida 
ble  excess.  Surely  it  was  that.  He  hoped  no  such  beastliness 
lived  by  nature  in  him. 

To  wait  till  evening  to  make  his  apology  was  insupportable 
but  business  called  him  in  town  and  kept  him  there  till  night. 
He  wrote  a  brief  note  and  sent  it  to  Corinne.  It  took  him 
fifteen  minutes  to  find  the  words  and  then  they  did  not  satisfy 
him.  What  could  express  his  self-disgust,  what  words  could 
right  him  again  in  the  eyes  of  Corinne. 


CHAPTER  EIGHTEEN 

Corinne  sought  her  boudoir  that  night,  her  face  scarlet,  her 
eyes  shining  and  exultant.  Yet  she  felt  a  bit  shaken.  She 
had  discovered  in  Duncan  a  lover.  Not  that  that  was  an 
unusual  discovery.  Corinne  was  one  of  those  women  who 
demand  of  all  men  that  they  be  lovers,  if  only  for  the  hour. 
But  Duncan  had  been  different  from  other  men.  Never  before 
had  Duncan  by  his  own  volition  practised  the  demonstrations  of 
a  lover.  And  such  a  lover! 

She  dropped  into  a  low  chair  before  her  dainty  dressing  table 
and  looked  at  herself  in  the  glass.  Her  hair  was  disheveled, 
her  gown  crumpled  with  his  embrace  and  she  was  taken  with  an 
emotion  unusual  for  her  well-poised  head  and  heart.  Her 
hand  smarted  yet  with  his  grip.  She  looked  at  it,  curiously, 
where  the  red  circled  the  delicate  flesh  and  a  great  exultation 
laid  hold  of  her. 

From  under  the  vanity,  the  conventionality  of  the  girl,  the 
instincts  of  the  primal  woman  emerged  and  rejoiced.  She  had 
met  a  master!  For  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  felt  her  self 
dominated,  her  will  surrendered  to  another.  Such  tribute  had 
never  been  taken  by  the  immaculately  groomed,  smart  mannered 
lovers  she  had  known  before,  the  men  who  could  mingle  cock 
tails  and  repartee  with  such  grace.  They  lacked  the  primitive 
force  of  a  man  like  Duncan,  self-contained,  contemptous  alike 
of  super-culture  and  grossness.  In  the  moment  in  which  she 
had  known  his  embrace  she  had  felt  the  pure  essence  of  the  man 
that  his  self-command,  his  simplicity,  the  naturalness  of  his 
physical  and  mental  life  had  allowed  to  survive  and  have  strong 
and  normal  way.  She  was  not  fitted  to  appreciate  his  more 
subtle  qualities,  the  qualities  of  mind  and  soul  that  provided 
his  uncommon  personality,  the  man  in  his  entirety,  but  she 


156  THE    CLAW 

realized  a  new  and  exhilarating  experience  in  her  physical 
nearness  to  him,  a  zestfulness  she  had  never  known  in  her 
former  conquests. 

But  was  it  a  conquest,  yet?  Why  did  Duncan  not  push  his 
advantage?  She  had  never  yielded  to  any  man  such  surrender. 
Her  face  flamed,  not  in  compunction  but  in  the  thought  of  her 
complete  domination,  her  entire  capitulation,  an  advantage  she 
was  not  wont  to  yield. 

Her  mind  took  hold  of  uneasiness.  Could  it  be?  Duncan  was 
changed.  She  felt  it  on  the  first  night  and  that  change  had  given 
him  new  consideration  in  her  eyes.  He  was  older,  more  ex 
perienced,  with  more  power  and  independence.  His  former 
diffidence  that  had  annoyed  her  with  its  semblance  of  humility 
was  gone.  He  had  become  a  man  worthy  of  her  interest  and 
something  more.  His  comparative  indifference,  too,  had 
piqued  her  vanity.  His  new  self-possession  and  individuality 
had  lent  zest  to  their  evenings  but  he  seemed  more  remote 
than  in  the  old  days,  less  susceptible  to  her  charms.  She  had 
not  recognized  the  command  with  which  he  made  his  impulses 
bide  their  time  till  his  pride  and  circumstances  would  allow 
him  to  make  honorable  suit  to  the  woman  of  his  heart. 

She  remembered  that  there  had  been  times  when  he  had 
disappointed  her,  when  he  had  failed  to  appear  at  the  informal 
hours  she  was  accustomed  to  look  for  him.  Had  he  other 
interests?  Once  in  her  coupe,  she  had  met  him  driving  his 
machine  with  Marlinee  beside  him.  She  had  always  been 
jealous  of  Marlinee.  Corinne  knew  of  his  deep  regard  for  her. 
And  on  another  occasion  she  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  him 
walking  slowly,  confidentially,  with  another  woman,  a  girl 
unknown  to  her.  Were  there  others  beside  herself?  Was 
Duncan  indeed  a  man  of  the  world  with  his  various  loves  and 
would  he  count  last  night  only  another  score  to  his  credit? 
Duncan,  the  shy,  the  deprecated,  the  patronized  and  coached? 


THE    CLAW  157 

Her  face  flamed  with  the  thought  and  she  started  at  the  sound 
of  the  delicate  lace  of  her  tiny  handkerchief,  torn  by  her  nervous 
fingers. 

It  could  not  be.  It  was  absurd.  Duncan  was  not  that  sort 
of  a  man.  Her  only  rival  lay  in  Marlinee.  Marlinee  loved 
him,  of  course  she  must,  a  girl  of  her  ideals.  Did  she  love  him? 
The  thought  flashed  curiously  into  her  mind.  Well  she  desired 
him.  He  was  a  man  to  be  desired,  now,  and  she  must  have 
him.  There  were  few  things  Corinne  had  ever  been  denied. 

In  the  morning  she  received  his  note.  She  crumpled  it  in  her 
hand  and  laughed  with  scorn  at  him— humiliation  for  herself. 
And  this  was  the  end  of  his  brain  storm — the  meaning  of  it  all  • 
A  mere  moment  of  unrestrained  passion  which  he  had  not  even 
the  nerve  to  sustain  with  bravado,  to  push  to  his  advantage  if  he 
really  desired  her,  as  he  had  led  her  all  these  years  to  believe. 
Faugh!  Corinne  was  not  a  pleasant  person  to  live  with  that 
day. 

In  the  evening  he  sought  her.  She  was  alone  on  the  veranda 
again.  She  did  not  come  to  meet  him,  but  her  voice  directed 
him.  She  was  sitting  in  the  veranda  swing.  He  plunged  into 
the  shadows  impulsively  and  found  her,  cool,  remote,  langorous, 
in  her  retreat. 

"Corinne,"  he  cried  at  once,  "what  an  unspeakable  brute  I 
was!  Oh,  I  have  hated  myself  all  day."  He  flung  himself  on  a 
low  stool  at  her  feet,  his  face  aflame,  braving  her.  She  drew 
back  looking  at  him  in  the  dim  light,  strangely.  He  deserved 
it,  he  knew  but  he  winced, 

"Coiinne,  I  know  I  was  a  beast!  I  dishonored  you,  I  dis 
honored  myself.  Can  you  forgive  me?"  She  arose  slowly  and 
stood  looking  past  him.  In  the  darkness  she  bit  her  lips.  He 
dared  not  look  at  her  and  the  moment  seemed  an  age. 

"You  are  apologizing  for  last  night?"  she  said.  He  groaned; 
she  was  relentless.  But  she  suddenly  gave  a  laugh,  an  amused 


158  THE    CLAW 

laugh  like  a  mother  at  the  ignorance  of  a  child  and  came  close 
to  him,  placing  her  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"You  don't  seem  to  understand.  You  gave  me  the  idea  that 
you  were  making  love  to  me."  He  stared,  unbelieving. 

"Then  you  are  not  offended?"  he  gasped.  "I  thought  you 
would  be  insulted." 

"Insulted,  because  I  thought  you  loved  me?"  Her  eyes  were 
close  to  his,  looking  down  at  him  as  he  stared  up  in  stupefaction. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  His  breath  was  that  of  a  hard  runner. 
He  seized  the  hand  on  his  shoulder.  "What  do  you  mean?" 

"Why!"  she  laughed  and  shrugged  her  shoulders,  "that  we 
are  lovers,  aren't  we?  We've  been  so  for  years,  people  say. 
And  its  time  we  were  acting  like  lovers  isn't  it?  She  bent  and 
deliberately  drew  her  red  lips  across  his  cheek.  He  sprang  to 
his  feet. 

"You  mean  it,  Corinne!"  He  seized  her,  pushing  her  face 
back  until  he  looked  into  her  eyes.  They  mocked,  but  smiled 
and  he  closed  them  with  his  kisses. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

The  first  impulse  of  Duncan's  new  happiness  was  to  tell 
Marlinee.  Marlinee  had  so  long  been  the  sharer  of  all  his 
joys  and  sorrows.  But  Corinne  had  abstracted  the  promise  to 
keep  the  matter  a  secret  for  some  weeks  from  all  but  the  two 
families,  and  he  was  willing.  That  she  had  capitulated  before 
the  proofs  of  his  material  prosperity  had  materialized  filled 
him  with  gratification.  It  proved  that  her  affection  was  based 
on  something  more  than  wordly  outlook.  He  reproached 
himself  that  he  had  assigned  wordliness  any  place  at  all  in  his 
conception  of  her  personality.  She  was  a  lovely  and  unselfish 
woman,  as  lovely  as  her  comely  exterior,  as  pure  in  motive  as 
the  exquisite  texture  of  her  flawless  beauty.  He  could  wait. 
In  honor,  he  was  bound  to  wait.  When  the  partnership  with 
Blythe  was  formed  and  his  material  and  social  position  estab 
lished,  then  the  engagement  would  be  formally  announced. 
He  could  tell  Marlinee  one  of  his  new  joys,  however,  and, 
enthusiastic  from  the  encouragement  received  from  Mr. 
Cummings,  and  the  pleasure  and  congratulations  of  the  two 
ladies,  Duncan  sought  Marlinee  and  buoyantly  detailed  the 
news  of  his  offer  from  Blythe. 

" Blythe!"  exclaimed  Marlinee,  the  quick  emotion  that  con 
veyed  so  unerringly  her  thought  mounted  to  her  cheeks  in  color. 

"Oh,  you  don't  mean  Blythe!"  Duncan  mistook  the  cause 
of  her  consternation. 

"Sure,  Blythe!  I  knew  you'd  be  surprised — glad  for  me. 
It's  great,  isn't  it?  I  never  could  have  thought  of  such  a  thing. 
Why,  Marlinee,  do  you  know  what  this  means?  It  is  the 
making  of  me  from  every  point  of  view.  It's  the  fulfilment  of 
all  that  I  could  ever  wish,  all  that  I  have  wanted,  dreamed  of." 


160  THE    CLAW 

He  spoke  with  feeling.  Corinne's  face,  her  smile,  the  promise  of 
her  eyes  were  before  him. 

"But,  Duncan,"  Marlinee  was  embarrassed.  "Duncan, 
Blythe  is  the  owner  of  the  Parisian.  It  is  his  latest  and  pet 
enterprise.  He  is  owner,  or  has  controlling  interest  in  the  "Non 
Pariel,'  and  in  the  'Little  Hungarian,'  two  more  smart  and 
notorious  cafes.  I  was  at  the  Non  Pariel  last  New  Years.  The 
manager  called  up  and  asked  to  have  me  sent  out.  It  was  the 
opening  night  and  'society'  had  engaged  a  lot  of  the  tables.  The 
management  wanted  a  big  write  up.  Hay  ward  went  with  me. 
Society  was  there  and  everybody  else.  I  never  was  in  such  a 
place  before.  We  left  at  midnight  and  at  that  hour  men  were 
snatching  the  girls  from  their  chairs  and  ragging,  some  of  the 
women  were  on  the  tables  and  some  of  the  men  under  them. 
It  was  awful! 

"I  told  McWhirter  about  it;  in  fact  he  looked  in  on  it  himself, 
and  he  was  awfully  mad.  We  didn't  give  it  a  line  in  'society.' 
McWhirter  said  he  wouldn't  if  they  cut  out  every  line  of 
advertising  for  the  next  year.  Hayward  gave  it  two  sticks  and 
a  single  head  as  a  news  story."  Duncan  listened  in  amaze 
ment,  but  his  face  suddenly  cleared. 

"That's  pretty  bad,"  he  said,  "but  I'll  bet  I  know  the  reason 
for  it.  It  was  opening  night  and  New  Years  Eve,  two  things 
that  provide  for  license.  The  manager  wanted  to  make  good, 
to  popularize  the  place,  and  he  let  the  crowd  have  its  way. 
About  the  Parisian  and  Glad's  case,  I  told  Blythe  the  other 
day,  didn't  name  her,  of  course,  and  he  seemed  surprised  and 
concerned,  said  he  didn't  stand  for  that  sort  of  thing  and 
would  look  into  the  matter  and  have  it  stopped.  He  said  he 
expected  the  place  to  cater  to  the  best  and  he  wouldn't  have 
such  things  going  on. 

"But  about  the  'Non  Pariel',"  Duncan  continued,  "don't 
you  exaggerate  a  little?  Mrs.  Cummings  and  Corinne  said 


THE     CLAW  161 

they  attended  the  opening  night  and  it  was  delightful.  Very 
smart  but  thoroughly  respectable  in  every  way.  Perhaps  they 
left  before  you  did." 

" Perhaps  they  did,"  said  Marlinee,  with  some  sarcasm. 
Their  commendation  did  not  improve  the  matter  in  the  least 
in  her  eyes.  She  remembered  them  as  members  of  a  gay  party 
at  one  of  the  society  tables.  Mr.  Cummings  was  riot  present. 
Mrs.  Cummings  and  her  daughter  were  among  those  apparently 
well-bred  people  who  follow  'society'  to  whatever  extent  its 
whims  and  foibles  lead,  assured  that  anything  must  be  eminently 
respectable  to  which  members  known  as  the  "smart  set"  lent 
themselves.  She  did  not  know  when  Mrs.  Cummings  and  her 
daughter  left  but  she  did  recall  Corinne  in  the  filmy  habiliments 
of  conventional  evening  dress  moving  with  her  partner  in  the 
hideous  contortions  of  the  "rag",  elbow  to  elbow  with  couples 
whose  manner  and  exterior  showed  them  to  be  denizens  and 
patrons  of  the  underworld. 

"But,  Marlinee,"  added  Duncan,  uncomfortable  by  her 
disfavor.  "I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do.  I'll  look  into  this  thing, 
of  course.  I'm  sure  I  don't  want  to  tie  myself  up  with  any 
business  I'd  be  ashamed  of.  But  even  if  this  criticism  of  his 
refreshment  places  is  true,  even  if  these  abuses  have  worked 
themselves  in,  you  must  remember  that  they  are  not  ineradicable. 
I'm  to  be  a  partner  in  the  business  and  on  equal  footing  with 
Blythe  himself.  I'll  have  my  say  in  this  matter.  This  is  but 
a  small  part  of  a  great  and  respectable  business  Blythe  is 
operating.  Here  is  where  I  can  do  something  in  the  way  of 
changing  the  conditions  you  and  I  deplore.  If  I  go  in  with 
Blythe  there's  one  thing  certain,  this  thing  will  be  stopped. 
I'll  give  my  hand  to  cleaning  up  the  refreshment 
places  that  I  have  anything  to  do  with  and  making  them  the 
places  they  should  be,  where  men  and  women,  and  boys  and 


162  THE     CLAW 

girls  can  come  together  and  enjoy  each  others  company  in 
wholesome  environment." 

His  face  was  flushed  with  his  new  enthusiasm  and  he  looked 
very  big  and  efficient,  his  strong  young  shoulders  under  his  thin 
shirt  bristling  to  the  task.  She  put  her  hand  out  to  him  in 
voluntarily  with  a  quick  smile,  but  turned  away,  as  quickly, 
and  shook  her  head. 

"Won't  that  be  great,  Marlinee?"  he  urged  like  an  eager  boy. 
'  "Yes,  dear — very  fine!"  she  said. 

Duncan's  days  were  filled  with  an  exhilaration  not  before 
experienced.  His  life,  so  long  constrained,  repressed  by  cir 
cumstances,  seemed  suddenly  to  have  emerged  into  a  large 
place,  a  big  view,  with  many  delightful  and  undreamed  of 
things  on  its  horizon. 

His  manner  of  life  was  greatly  changed  by  the  first  two 
considerations.  As  Corinne's  accepted,  if  not  yet  acknowledged 
fiance,  he  went  out  much  into  the  gay  society  to  which  she 
belonged  and  his  new  popularity  and  his  own  determination  to 
mingle  more  with  men,  to  be  one  with  his  fellows,  took  him 
among  the  latter;  to  the  clubs  where  he  was  extended  a  cordial 
fellowship,  to  the  social  occasions  of  his  business  friends. 

His  long  repressed  social  instincts  began  to  emerge  under 
these  influences.  He  developed  undreamed  of  social  possibilities. 
He  could  talk  well  when  he  chose  to  talk.  Men  listened  to 
him,  women  too.  His  reticence  piqued  their  interest  and 
vanity.  It  was  something  to  draw  out  this  reserved,  self- 
contained  man  who,  when  he  spoke,  was  found  to  be  possessed 
of  real  conversational  talents.  He  surprised  them  sometimes 
with  sudden  retorts  that  checkmated  their  sallies.  They 
liked  his  blunt,  mannish  ways  better  than  the  more  polished 
manners  of  the  parlor-used  men. 

The  evenings  with  the  older  men,  in  occasions  strictly  mascu 
line,  he  enjoyed  best.  He  had  always  been  a  great  favorite 


THE    CLAW  163 

with  his  father's  friends.  But  even  the  doings  of  Corinne's 
set  he  attended  with  immense  diversion.  Their  frivolities 
amused  him.  He  was  not  backward  at  cards  and  a  Scotchman 
who  had  lived  in  a  family  which  kept  up  old  traditions  could  not 
but  dance  with  distinction,  even  though  soberly  and  with  vast 
conscientiousness.  Thus  did  Duncan  accomplish  the  tango 
and  other  modern  terpsichorean  tests  under  the  tutelage  of 
Corinne,  who  was  immensely  proud  of  his  social  progress.  He 
entered  into  these  diversions  with  the  delight  and  amusement 
of  a 'boy;  he  was  regaining  his  lost  play  period.  In  other 
words  he  was  revelling  in  wholly  new  experiences,  physical  and 
psychological.  It  was  "dessert"  time  after  a  long  season  of 
extremely  plain  fare ;  a  delightful  and  unbelievable  change  from 
his  years  of  practised  self-denial. 

Oh,  but  he  had  "dug"  at  college  these  past  four  years!  Oh, 
but  he  had  skimped  himself!  He  had  cut  out  every  personal 
pleasure,  stripped  his  expenditures  down  to  the  bare  necessities 
of  living,  abandoned  even  his  pipe.  He  couldn't  afford  any 
thing.  The  place  needed  every  cent  and  he  had  his  mother 
always  in  his  thought  and  her  pathetic  economies.  He  had 
never  indulged  himself  in  the  idea  that  certain  expenditures  be 
long  to  masculine  right,  no  matter  what  may  be  the  sacrifices 
of  other  members  of  the  family.  And  now  it  was  over,  or  nearly 
over,  and  things  undreamed  of  were  at  hand. 

Corinne,  of  course,  was  his  chief  joy,  the  goal  for  which  he 
had  worked  and  prayed — as  much  as  he  ever  allowed  himself  to 
pray  for  anything.  It  was  a  part  of  his  stern, unworded  creed! 
Praying  ordinarily  wasted  time  for  accomplishing  with  his  own 
God-given  brain  and  arm. 

He  saw  Corinne  daily,  as  was  the  privilege  of  an  engaged 
man.  When  he  did  not  see  her,  he  thought  of  her,  of  her  hair, 
of  her  eyes,  her  lips,  her  throat,  of  the  lace,  rising  and  falling  on 
her  soft  bosom.  It  was  a  strange  thing  that  all  his  thought  of 


164  THE    CLAW 

her  was  associated  with  the  physical.  It  troubled  him.  He 
had  never  been  a  man  who  laid  the  supreme  value  on  the 
physical.  He  had  never  been  guilty  of  the  vulgar  appraisment 
of  women  practised  by  some  men.  His  imagination  was 
peculiarly  clean. 

It  was  a  matter  of  concern  to  him,  this  development  of  a 
bent  of  mind  of  which  he  had  been  unconscious.  It  was  not 
Corinne's  fault,  he  told  himself.  It  was  the  evidence  of  some 
weakness  in  himself,  of  which  he  had  been  unaware.  In  his 
self-disgust  he  called  himself  hard  names.  After  all,  all  men 
were  alike.  An  element  of  baseness  lived  in  all.  Only  women 
were  pure.  It  was  a  strange  arraignment  of  the  Creator  that 
man  with  his  primal  infirmities,  the  survivals  of  the  brute 
within  him,  should  be  privileged  the  association  of  women, 
good  women,  lovely  women  like  Corinne.  But  he  wished  that 
Corinne  might  understand  a  trifle,  the  weakness  of  men,  of 
himself.  He  wished  she  would  use  a  bit  more  discretion  in 
dress.  She  did  not  dream  the  overwhelming  splendor  of  her 
physical  charms,  accentuated  by  the  filmy  and  clinging  gowns 
the  season's  modes  permitted. 

There  was,  in  fact,  the  slightest  lack  in  his  ardor;  a  dis 
appointment  which  he  himself  would  not  acknowledge.  The 
physical  glamor  of  Corinne  was  ever  with  him,  present  or 
absent,  but  he  missed  a  subtle  something,  a  spiritual,  a  soul 
quality,  that  had  always  been  associated  in  his  mind  with  the 
thought  of  love.  His  reserved,  reflective  mind  had  exalted  an 
ideal  of  womanhood  that  would  combine  with  physical  charm, 
all  the  highest  and  finest  things  of  a  woman's  nature — things 
that  would  form  fellowship  with  the  best  in  himself;  no,  more, 
that  would  inspire  that  best  to  a  higher  goal.  Sometimes,  in  her 
presence, with  her  whole  splendid  self,  his  to  reach  out  his  arm 
and  take,  he  was  conscious  of  the  man  in  him  looking  beyond, 
unsatisfied  by  the  emotional  fulfilment  of  love,  wistful  and 


THE    CLAW  165 

expectant  yet.  Always  it  upbraided  him,  this  other  man. 
It  walked  with  him  home  in  the  late  shadows  of  the  night.  It 
whispered  to  him  that  he  was  not  yielding  to  this  woman  he 
had  desired  all  his  life,  his  all,  his  complete  self,  the  gift  she, 
as  his  affianced  wife,  deserved.  He  wished  he  could  ask  some 
one  about  it  wiser  than  himself.  Marlinee?  She  knew  so  many 
things,  funny  little  girl.  Then  he  laughed  at  the  absurdity  of 
the  idea. 

A  phase  of  Duncan's  new  life,  otherwise  so  grateful  to  his  new 
senses  was  the  necessity  it  laid  on  him  for  more  indulgence  in 
drink  than  he  desired.  His  tastes  were  in  all  ways  most 
temperate  and  his  aloofness  from  his  fellows  and  from  society 
in  the  past  spared  him  the  convivial  habits  with  which  more 
sociable  men  were  drawn.  Now  that  he  was  adopting  the 
conventionalities,  this  was  included  among  the  rest.  It  was 
provided  both  by  the  hospitality  he  met  at  the  homes  of  his 
friends,  and  by  his  business  associates.  But  he  used  the  ut 
most  caution  in  his  drinking  habits.  He  was  willing,  since  the 
experience  at  Corinne's  when  the  wine  went  to  his  head  so  un 
expectedly  and  with  such  unaccountable  effect,  to  admit  that 
there  was  danger  in  it.  He  should,  he  told  himself,  forgive  the 
wine  for  its  work  on  that  occasion  since,  indirectly,  it  won  him 
Corinne,  but  he  did  not  care  to  encourage  tendencies  of  which, 
before,  he  did  not  know  himself  possessed.  He  could  under 
stand  now  how  wine  used  in  excess  came  to  exaggerate  the 
natural  passion  and  tend  to  vice,  besides  other  results.  It  was 
no  thing  for  weaklings — the  drink.  It  behooved  the  strong  to 
use  it  with  caution. 


CHAPTER  XX 

The  trial  of  Antonio,  at  first  promising  to  be  no  more  than  the 
usual  commitment  of  a  cholo,  developed  into  one  of  the  most 
desperate  legal  battles  that  the  state  ever  had  seen,  certainly 
the  most  bitterly  fought  issue  that  ever  had  been  based  upon  the 
liquor  traffic. 

Duncan  himself  was  a  witness  for  the  defense.  His  testimony 
was  used  to  establish  the  character  of  the  defendent  as  one 
industrious,  temperate  and  faithful.  It  was  all  Duncan  could 
do  for  Antonio  and  a  service  insignificant  enough  when  his 
whole  mind's  energy  and  desire  were  bent  on  saving  the  man 
in  whose  impending  fate  he  felt  an  oppressive  if  undefinable 
responsibility.  The  days  held  more  acute  anxiety  than  he  had 
ever  known  before.  Never  before  had  he  been  associated  with 
circumstances  that  involved  the  life  or  death  of  a  man.  His 
residence  elsewhere  since  his  majority  had  relieved  him  of 
civic  duties  and  he  had  never  had  the  leisure  to  haunt  the 
courts  as  a  diversion.  He  had  never  attended  a  murder  trial 
before  and  like  many,  unaccustomed  to  such  scenes,  the  matter 
of  fact  air  of  the  proceedings,  the  absence  of  impressiveness, 
of  the  sense  of  fateful  things,  amazed  and  shocked  him.  The 
lawyers  smoked  and  chatted  inconsequentially  during  recesses 
and  the  judge  leaned  over  the  rail  between  witnesses  and 
passed  a  pleasantry  with  the  court  reporter.  The  testimony 
of  one  of  the  Hindoos  provoked  laughter  throughout  the  court 
rooms  in  which  His  Honor  joined. 

Yet  Antonio  sat  there,  on  trial  for  his  life,  and  his  dark  eyed 
little  wife  at  home,  in  the  anguish  of  suspense,  was  attended 
faithfully  and  tearfully  by  Jeanie. 

"Virgen  Sanctisimal — Ten  mis  misericordial"  the  little 
thing  prayed,  hour  upon  hour,  her  hands  stretched  toward 


THE    CLAW  167 

the  cheap  little  altar  where  the  candles  had  been  kept  burning 
since  the  day  of  Antonio's  arrest,  and  Jeanie,  sitting  tense 
and  watchful,  added  "Amen!" 

Duncan  sat  and  moved  in  a  trance  and  some  of  his  cherished 
ideals  grew  remote  and  vanished  wholly  in  the  shock  of  reality. 
"Justice,"  that  incomparable  goddess,  in  his  new  conception 
came  to  wear  the  guise  of  the  type-writer  girl  who  haughtily 
guarded  the  Judge's  office,  her  sword  a  bristling  desk  ruler, 
her  crown  and  insignia  a  high-pitched  coiffure  well  spiked  with 
horse-shoe  hairpins. 

ClifYe  threw  into  his  defense  all  the  power  and  logic  of  which 
he  was  possessed  and  which  knew  no  flagging.  To  Duncan, 
listening  with  an  intensity  that  made  his  whole  body  an  organ 
of  hearing,  it  was  an  arraignment  of  causes  that  swept  the  color 
from  his  face  with  it's  fierce,  personal  application. 

"And  Gentlemen  of  the  Jury,"  continued  Attorney  Cliffe 
after  summing  up  the  testimony  of  the  defense  in  the  masterly 
manner  that  marked  him  as  one  of  the  ablest  lawyers  of  the 
state,  "In  passing  judgment  on  this  man  I  want  you  to  remem 
ber  that  the  prisoner,  Antonio  Gomez,  is  riot  a  'cholo.' 

"Antonio  Gomez  is  not  a  cholo.  He  is  an  American  citizen, 
a  native  son,  the  son  and  grandson  of  a  native  son.  He  was 
born  and  raised  on  the  land  of  the  man  in  whose  employ  he 
is.  When  Douglas  Cameron  bought  that  land  from  the  heirs 
of  Manuel  Garcia,  the  Gomez  family  were  tenants  and  employees 
on  the  land,  and  there  was  an  agreement  between  Cameron 
and  them  that  they  should  remain  as  such  so  long  as  the  ar 
rangement  was  agreeable  to  both.  And  it  has  been  agreeable 
to  both  families  for  many  years.  From  the  testimony  of  Dun 
can  Cameron,  the  present  owner  of  the  estate,  you  have  heard 
today,  that  these  men  were  in  all  ways  faithful,  industrious 
and  reliable,  and  this  Antonio  in  particular. 

"Consider  now,  that,  with  the  record  of  this  faithful  service 


168  THE    CLAW 

to  their  credit  and  with  their  affections  bound  up  with  La 
Mesa  vineyard,  from  long  time  association  as  their  birth  place 
and  home,  these  men — the  Gomez  men,  all  but  Antonio — 
were  discharged  wantonly  and  without  provocation,  not  by 
Cameron,  who  was  away  at  the  time,  but  by  his  manager, 
Morton,  in  spite  of  Morton's  knowledge  of  his  employer's 
regard  for  the  men. 

"And  why  were  they  discharged?  In  order  to  replace  them 
with  cheap  labor  -  -  imported  labor,  Hindoos.  This 
also,  as  you  have  heard  from  Duncan  Cameron,  strictly  against 
his  policy  and  intentions. 

"I  have  contended  in  this  trial  that  revenge  was  not  the 
motive  of  this  murder  and  I  still  so  contend — but  I  would  not 
have  you  lose  sight,  Gentlemen  of  the  Jury,  of  the  grievances, 
the  defendant  suffered  in  that  discrimination  against  himself 
and  his  people  and  I  want  to  say  now  that  this  case  affords  a 
striking  example  of  that  increasing  practice  in  this  state  of 
discarding  American  for  foreign  labor;  importing  the  trash 
and  truck  of  the  eastern  world  to  underbid  our  clean  and 
honest  American  laborers  in  the  clean  and  wholesome  work 
of  the  fields  and  the  vineyards.  I  tell  you,  gentlemen,  that 
this  sort  of  thing  is  a  thing  which  is  going  to  bring  about  a 
civil  conflict  in  this  country  when  our  peaceful  vineyard  lands 
will  be  stained,  not  with  the  deep  and  wholesome  juice  of  the 
vine  but  a  deeper  dye — the  blood  of  our  outraged  industrial 
brothers.  Into  this  man,  then,  this  man  of  industries  and 
sober  practice,  of  law  abiding  instincts,  this  wrong  bit  deep, 
and  the  resentment  of  it  ranklled. 

"And,  now,  mark  you,  Gentlemen,  something  entered 
into  this  man  here,  at  the  logical  moment,  that  inhibited  his 
law-abiding  sense,  his  ideas  of  right;  that  broke  up  his  self 
control  and  loosed  all  the  pent  up  passion  and  resentment 
within  him.  What  was  that  thing?  Boo{e\  And  where 


THE    CLAW  169 

did  he  get  it?  From  the  man  that  worked  him  the  first  injus 
tice — him  and  his  family — from  Morton! 

" Gentlemen,  I  have  no  desire  to  paliate  the  habit  of  drink — 
to  excuse  the  man  who  is  such  a  fool  as  to  let  his  appetite  get 
away  from  him.  Every  man  ought  to  stand  on  his  volition. 
But  I  will  say  this,  and  I  want  to  say  it  so  strongly  that  you 
men  won't  forget  or  overlook  it,  that  is,  that  the  man  who  does 
tempt  another  man  to  drink,  or  to  any  other  indulgence  in 
weakness,  is  responsible  for  the  results  of  that  indulgence, 
and  just  so  far  as  he  over-ruled  the  other  man's  judgment, 
wilfully  and  with  intent,  the  former  is  in  part  exonerated  from 
the  guilt  of  results. 

"Morton  encouraged  his  men  in  the  booze  habit.  He  made 
drink  available  for  them,  against  the  practice  and  policy  of 
his  employer.  By  a  little  straining  of  the  regulation,  by  what 
is  practically  known,  in  the  eyes  of  the  law,  as  boot-legging, 
he  got  the  booze  for  his  men,  urged  them  to  it  as  looking  to 
their  interests. 

"You  have  heard  the  testimony  of  his  employer,  Cameron, 
and  the  reluctant  testimony  of  the  manager  himself  to  the 
sobriety  of  this  man  before  he  was  pressed,  for  policy's  sake  and 
the  sake  of  his  position,  into  drinking.  You  have  heard  his 
own  testimony  as  to  his  reluctance  to  resume  an  old  habit 
now  conquered.  You  have  heard  his  story  of  how  that  habit, 
grew  on  him  by  the  opportunity  provided. 

"You  have  heard  his  story  of  the  evening  drinking  bout. 
Of  the  wine  provided  by  Morton,  and  his  continued  urging  of 
the  men  to  have  another  round. 

"You  have  heard  him  tell  of  how,  from  determination  to 
drink  but  enough  for  policy's  sake,  he  was  urged  to  drink  more 
and  more  and  then  how  the  madness  took  hold  on  him;  the 
inhibition  was  accomplished  and  he  drank — drank  like  a  swine, 
with  swine. 


170  THE    CLAW 

"You  have  heard  him  tell 'of  a  dim  remembrance  of  starting 
home  with  the  rest,  of  words  between  him  and  the 
Hindoo,  of  the  two  grappling  and  then — confusion  and  darkness! 

"Gentlemen,  what  was  that  moment  of  darkness,  when  the 
sense  and  the  senses  of  the  men  were  alike  struck  out?  I'll 
tell  you.  It  was  the  moment  in  which  the  poison  he  had  drunk 
was  fused  with  his  long  hurt,  the  resentment,  till  then  kept 
in  bounds  by  the  man's  royal  will,  safe-walled  in  the  deep 
vault  of  the  subconscious.  It  was  when  the  poison  reached 
that  dangerous  mine  and  drink  and  hate,  in  combustion, 
wrought  it's  normal  result — iragedy\ 

"Will  you  condemn  this  man,  the  victim  of  madness — of 
imposed  madness?  Will  you  hold  him  responsible  for  this 
crime? 

"I  tell  you,  Gentlemen  of  the  Jury,  that  this  prisoner — this 
man  who  has  no  memory  of  his  deed — is  not  the  one  who  is 
responsible  for  this  tragedy.  There  are  others.  Morton? 
Yes,  and  you  and  /,  the  citizens  of  this  state  whose  vote  legalizes 
this  thing — drink — the  logical  end  of  which  is  crime.  It  is 
we  who  stand  before  the  bar  of  justice — in  the  court  of  the 

Almighty,  charged  with  the  murder  of  a  fellow  man!" 

*** 

The  prisoner  escaped  the  hangman's  noose  by  a  hand-breadth 
but  by  the  verdict  of  the  jury  read  in  the  drawling  tones  of 
the  court  clerk,  Antonio,  twenty-five  years  of  age,  a  husband 
and  father,  a  laborer  of  the  best  type — sans  booze — was  doomed 
to  take  his  youth,  the  strength  of  his  young  manhood  that 
promised  a  wholesome  seed  and  strong  generation  and  the 
working  capacity  of  some  forty  or  so  years  within  the  shadow 
and  eclipse  of  the  penitentiary,  not  to  come  forth  from  thence 
until  his  discarded  clay  should  be  borne  out  in  one  of  the  plain 
boxes  the  state  supplies  for  the  ashes  of  such  sacrifice. 


THE    CLAW  171 

Duncan  had  awaited  the  verdict  with  a  face  whiter  than 
that  of  the  prisoner,  and  when  it  was  announced  Antonio's 
little  wife,  who  had  insisted  on  being  with  her  husband  at 
the  crucial  moment,  crumpled  like  paper  and  fell  across  the 
arm  of  her  chair.  It  seemed  incredible!  Duncan  in  his  in 
experience  had  been  more  sanguine  than  his  attorney.  Anx 
ious,  distressed  as  he  had  been  for  the  outcome,  his  mind  could 
not  grasp  for  Antonio  the  fate  of  the  death  penalty  and  even 
a  life  sentence  was  not  to  be  entertained.  Ten — twenty  years — 
he  had  tried  to  bring  Amanda's  shrinking  mind  to  accept  as 
a  possible  outcome,  but  this — this  life  in  death — this  burying 
of  the  quick  in  a  living  grave.  It  was  horrible,  inconceivable. 

But  there  was  chance  for  a  re-trial.  He  whispered  the  hope 
in  Antonio's  deaf  ear.  The  latter  had  not  spoken  or  made 
a  sign  other  than  to  reach  and  support  his  wife  till  the  court 
attendants  came  and  bore  her  to  the  ante-room.  But  a  new 
trial  was  denied.  The  evidence  had  been  so  convincing  that 
the  court  could  not  do  other  than  deny  the  motion,  and  An 
tonio  left  on  the  following  day,  in  the  company  of  a  deputy 
sheriff  and  two  other  prisoners  for  his  destination,  San  Quentin. 

Duncan  never  dreamed  of  so  tragic  a  parting.  His  own 
practiced  self  control  broke  down  before  the  grief  of  Antonio's 
distracted  wife  and  children — the  latter,  charming  little  crea 
tures  in  which  their  Mexican  blood  was  scarcely  discernible 
except  by  an  unwonted  beauty.  The  little  things,  unrealizing 
the  meaning  of  the  moment  but  sensing  the  tragedy  with  the 
keen  instinct  of  children,  clung  frantically  to  their  father, 
and  the  oldest  little  fellow  turned  with  scarlet  face  and  flash 
ing  eyes  on  the  officer: 

"You  shan't  take  my  papa,  mi  querida  papal  What  will 
mama  do — pobre  mama*  And  my  little  sister — bermanis- 
sima?  You  are  a  bad  man.  Let  him  go!  let  him  go,  I  say!" 

Antonio  took  the  child  between  his  knees  and  buried  his 


172  THE    CLAW 

face  in  his  curls,  and  voiceless  sobs  shook  his  great  shoulders. 
Then  he  embraced  his  wife  and  their  baby  and  pushed  them 
blindly  to  the  door;  turning,  he  held  out  his  arms  for  the  hand 
cuffs. 

At  the  station,  Duncan  talked  to  him  of  release— of  pardon. 
He  should  have  it — he  should  go  free  if  Duncan  had  to  sell 
La  Mesa  Vineyard  for  it.  He  should  be  brought  back  again 
if  it  took  Duncan's  all. 

Antonio  listened  silently,  almost  indifferently,  though  he 
thanked  Duncan  in  stereotyped  terms  for  his  help.  He  said 
but  one  word  as  the  train  pulled  out  and  he  reached  his  hampered 
hand  to  Duncan  for  the  last  time. 

''There's  only  one  thing  I  want,"  he  hissed  with  sudden 
flame,  "only  one  thing.  To  see  Morton  and  Bernardini  burn 
in  hell  fire  for  this!  To  see  the  man  that  dared  to  give  my  son 
the  first  glass  of  liquor  burn  in  hell  fire  through  eternity!" 

At  the  moment  Amanda  was  helped  half-fainting  to  the  auto 
mobile  by  Duncan  who  had  undertaken  her  care,  Bernardini 
in  the  snug  office  of  his  winery  was  dictating  a  letter  to  his  wife, 
summering  at  Lake  Tahoe  tavern.  Bernardini  had  never 
conquered  the  English  alphabet  sufficiently  to  write  with  com 
fort  or  with  assurance  of  his  Letters  being  read,  therefore,  he 
utilized  the  services  of  his  highly  paid  stenographer  for  his 
most  intimate  correspondence. 

"Dear  Margueietta:"  he  dictated,  between  puffs  at  a  fra 
grant  cigar.  "This  getting  on  without  you  and  the  cubs  isn't 
to  my  mind— it  ain't  Christian  for  a  man  to  be  parted  from 
his  wife  either  by  the  outing  season  or  any  other  cause  and  I 
don't  propose  to  stand  it.  It's  me  for  the  woods  about  Fri 
day  next.  And  inasmuch  as  business  has  been  looking  up  lately, 
I'll  come  overland  in  that  new  Pope-Hartford  I  promised  you 
last  spring." 


THE    CLAW  173 

By  an  odd  circumstance  the  price  of  Bernardini's  Pope- 
Hartford  just  equalled  the  amount  of  Attorney  Cliffe's  fee 
in  the  services  of  Antonio. 


CHAPTER    XXI 

Duncan's  dismissal  of  Morton  had  been  an  incident  he 
would  like  to  forget.  Morton,  irritable  and  overwrought  from 
a  recent  prolonged  spree,  smarting  under  the  hot  words  of 
Duncan  against  his  conduct  of  affairs  and  especially  his  part 
in  the  recent  tragedy,  stung  with  the  humiliation  of  the  dis 
missal,  answered  defiantly. 

"You  fire  me,  do  you?  Make  a  big  noise  about  my  drinkin' 
as  if  the  thing  never  happened  on  La  Mesa  vineyard  before. 
Why!  Your  own  father  was  a  booze  fighter —  He  got 
no  farther.  Duncan's  fist  went  out  like  a  flash  and  sent  him 
sprawling  to  the  ground.  He  stood  over  him,  his  face  livid, 
the  veins  standing  out  on  his  forehead: 

"You  coward!  You  say  a  thing  like  that  about  my  father? 
Get  up  and  go  or  I'll  do  you  damage." 

Morton  gained  his  feet,  quivering  and  cowed  under  the 
shock  of  Duncan's  blow.  It  was  an  evidence  of  his  degenerated 
moral  fiber  that  he  would  take  such  punishment  from  any 
man  without  return.  "All  right!"  he  sneered,  as 
he  moved  off,  "Just  remember — you,  who  set  yourself  up  for 
something  fine,  beyond  the  weakness  of  other  men!  Ask  the 
neighbors,  ask  the  Doctor  if  what  I  said  wasn't  true.  They1  II 
tell  you!  And  the  thing'll  get  you  yet!"  Duncan  took  a 
menacing  stride  toward  him  but  Morton  had  put  the  hedge 
between  them.  He  moved  off  brushing  the  dust  from  his 
clothes  and  muttering. 

Duncan  turned  to  the  house,  sick  over  the  whole  affair. 
Morton's  implication  he  had  heard  before,  once  or  twice  on 
the  lips  of  low-bred  people,  and  his  fist  had  clenched  as  now; 
then  he  had  laughed.  It  was  absurd  to  allow  the  babble  of 
vulgar  and  ignorant  folks  to  stir  one.  This  was  like  the  silly 


THE    CLAW  175 

report  that  Mrs.  McDonald  at  her  last  garden  party  was  found 
incapacitated  in  her  boudoir  before  her  guests  left,  that 
the  wine  men  at  their  banquet,  two  thirds  of  them,  were 
"stewed"  before  the  evening  was  half  over,  gossip,  disgusting 
gossip  on  the  lips  of  people  of  pin-head  caliber,  folks  who 
knew  but  one  side  of  the  social  drinking  habit,  the  low,  the 
vicious! 

But  in  spite  of  himself  Morton's  accusations  had  startled 
him,  enraged  him  to  the  point  of  doing  what  he  had  done. 
Well,  the  man  deserved  it.  It  might  knock  some  sense  again 
into  his  booze-addled  head.  He  was  not  sorry  except  on  Elsie's 
account.  Elsie  was  almost  a  sister.  She  had  come  from  Scot 
land  shortly  after  the  Cameron's  had,  from  Jeanie's  home 
village,  and  had  made  her  home  in  the  family  until  she  married 
Morton. 

He  should  have  spared  Morton  for  Elsie's  sake!  He 
shouldn't  have  added  to  Elsie's  other  troubles,  estrangement 
between  the  families.  He  would  see  Elsie  and  explain.  Elsie 
would  understand  his  indignation.  Elsie  knew,  of  course,  as 
did  he,  that  his  father  had,in  his  latter  and  invalid  years,drunk 
more  than  formerly,  more  perhaps,  than  was  quite  good  for 
him,  but  his  nervous  weakness  demanded  it;  his  emotional 
excess  in  a  way  counteracted  the  effect  and  it  did  not  hurt 
him  as  it  might  have  others.  He  was  always  strong;  always 
absolute  master  of  himself;  no  member  of  the  family  could 
say  with  truth  that  he  ever  had  been  seen  drunk.  It  was 
unpardonable  that  Morton,  because  his  own  weakness  had  made 
a  guzzling  fool  of  him,  should  be  permitted  to  accuse  his  father 
in  this  manner — slander  a  dead  man. 

Morton  returned  home  in  a  devil's  mood  from  his  encounter 
with  Duncan.  He  spread  his  arms  in  the  open  door-way, 
revealing  his  crumpled  and  dusty  clothes  and  the  bloody  welt 
rising  on  his  cheek  from  Duncan's  blow. 


170  THE    CLAW 

"See — a  gentleman's  work!"  he  cried,  "Your  fine  and  lovely 
Duncan  wasn't  satisfied  to  fire  me  but  had  to  knock  me 
down  first."  Elsie  rose  and  came  quickly  to  him. 

"What  do  you  mean?  What  did  you  say  that  made  him 
do  it?" 

"Say?  Why  the  truth!  Gave  it  to  him  straight.  Told 
him  it  was  fine  and  consistent  for  him  to  turn  off  a  man  because 
he  drank  once  and  awhile  when  his  own  father  was  a  boozer." 

''Harry!"  Her  voice  held  more  concern  than  on  his  first 
announcement.  "You  didn't  tell  Duncan  that — and  he  wor 
shipped  his  father!  He  never  knew — well,  it's  a  wonder  he 
didn't  kill  you!" 

Morton  raged.  Then  that  was  all  she  cared,  that  Duncan' s 
fine  sensibilities  might  not  be  hurt  by  the  facts,  rather 
than  that  her  husband  had  had  the  treatment 
of  a  dog!  Well,  that  was  all  right.  But  a  man  that  had  so 
little  devotion  in  his  own  family,  it  was  no  wonder  that 
he  sought  other  company,  other  comfort! 

In  his  soreness  over  the  matter  Duncan  took  his  trouble 
to  Marlinee.  He  had  been  to  Elsie  with  an  apology  and  ex 
planation.  While  she  had  listened  to  him  without  reproach, 
it  was  plain  and  natural  that  she  should  feel  some  sympathy 
in  Morton's  cause — some  resentment.  He  had  expressed  his 
sincere  regret  at  the  necessity  of  dismissing  Morton  whose 
incapacity,  he  added,  must  certainly  be  plain  even  to  her. 
He  wanted  them,  however,  to  continue  to  use  the  foreman's 
house  until  Morton  could  find  other  work  and  to  call  on  him 
in  case  of  any  need  whatever.  But  here  Elsie's 
loyalty  found  tongue : 

"Find  work?  Yes — and  where  will  he  find  it,  now  you've 
fired  him?  Who'll  have  him  now  and  him  gone  with  the 
booze? 

"Ah,  I  ain't  saying  that  Harry's  done  right — I  ain't  saying 


THE    CLAW  177 

he  had  any  right  to  say  what  he  did  to  you  but  I  will  say 
this,  that  Harry  used  to  be  a  temperate  man.  He  was  raised 
that  way,  his  folks  believe  that  way,  and  it  was  at  your  house 
that  he  took  his  first  drink — at  your  table!  And  I  think,  con 
sidering  that,  that  you're  almighty  hard  on  him  now."  Dun 
can's  hand  had  gone  up  to  his  face  as  though  the  blow  he  had 
given  had  been  returned.  His  face  was  very  white,  but  he 
strove  for  control. 

"And  how  did  he  get  the  habit  of  drinking — regular?" 
she  flashed.  "In  your  service,  doing  your  work  with  your 
friends — being  a  good  fellow  in  your  interests,  setting  up  the 
treats!  Oh,  they  were  very  temperate,  like  you!  They  were 
used  to  it.  They  could  take  a  lot  and  never  show  it.  But 
Harry,  because  he  wasn't  built  that  way,  because  it  took  hold 
of  him,  brought  him  down,  you  haven't  any  use  for  him  any 
more.  You  throw  him  out,  brand  him  in  the  eyes  of  the 
community  as  a  drunkard.  He  can't  get  work  now,  he  won't 
get  work,  and  now  what'll  we  do?"  She  gathered  into  her  arms 
with  one  defiant  sweep  her  sturdy  little  sons,  who  stared  up 
at  her  with  wide  astonished  eyes,  then  she  fell  suddenly  to 
sobbing  on  their  heads. 

Duncan  went  away  sick  of  heart.  There  seemed  to  be  no 
thing  to  do  but  tell  Marlinee.  Marlinee  seemed  the  natural 
repository  for  all  his  troubles.  He  would  tell  her  in  spite  of 
the  mental  reservations  with  which  he  knew  she  would  hear 
his  story  and  that  would  not  be  complimentary  to  himself. 
Marlinee  would  come  out  and  see  Elsie — the  two  women  knew 
and  liked  each  other.  Marlinee  would  make  Elsie  see  reason- 
she  must  not,  in  her  indignation,  pack  up  and  leave,  with  the 
family's  little  means,  go  away  from  her  friends  whom  she  needed 
just  now  so  sorely.  Marlinee  would  help. 


CHAPTER    XXII 

Marlin.ee  spught  the  Mortons  the  following  Sunday.  Harry 
was  away.  She  was  relieved  to  find  Elsie  in  a  more  softened 
mood  over  the  matter. 

"I  don't  spose  I  ought  to  have  talked  that  way  to  Duncan, 
especially  after  what  Harry  said.  That  was  awful!" 

"What  did  Harry  say?"  demanded  Marlinee.  Duncan 
had  not  told  her,  had  merely  said  Morton  had  called  his  father 
a  name  he  couldn't  bear  and  he  had  knocked  him  down.  Elsie 
recited  the  incident. 

"Oh!"  said  Marlinee,  "That  was  terrible  of  Morton.  "Then 
it's  true,  is  it,  what  has  been  said?  I  never  knew.  I  never 
wanted  to  ask." 

"Its  true  all  right,  I  was  with  them  to  the  last,  Harry  and 
I,  and  we  pledged  our  word  to  Mrs.  Cameron  that  we'd  never 
tell  anyone — that  we'd  never  let  Duncan  know.  Oh,  it 
was  terrible  of  Morton  to  break  that  promise." 

"And  in  such  a  brutal  way,"  added  Marlinee.  She  under 
stood  now,  in  full,  Duncan's  mood.  "But,  Elsie,  he  ought  to 
know,  he  ought  to.  It  might  make  a  great  difference  with 
his  views.  It  might  help  him  to  give  up  a  habit  that  may 
threaten  himself  in  the  future— since  his  father,  a  man  of  such 
will,  succumbed.  Oh!  Elsie — he  should  know!" 

"Yes — that's  what  I  told  his  mother  but  she  would  have 
nothing  of  it.  She'll  scarce  let  herself  admit  it.  And  it  was 
that  that  made  me  so  mad,  all  of  a  sudden,  when  I  thought  of 
it,  how,  just  cause  its  in  their  family,  this  disgrace,  it  must  be 
guarded,  shut  up,  kept  from  folks.  But  when  my  man  falls 
the  whole  world  must  know  it." 

"For  it's  true — "  she  added.  "When  he  come  to  work  for 
Mr.  Cameron — Harry — he  was  as  straight  and  fine  as  any  man 


THE    CLAW  179 

ever  was  and  the  best  hand  they  ever  had  on  the  place — you 
remember.  And  he  was  such  a  bonnie  lad,  too,  so  bright  and 
witty,  with  such  taking  ways.  I  fell  in  love  with  him  at  first 
sight  and  he  with  me."  Her  eyes  were  tender,  she  was  far 
away  in  her  thoughts,  her  fingers  working  unconsciously- 
stitching  on  a  tiny  baby  dress.  She  was  walking  again  down 
the  path  between  the  vineyard  rows  in  the  scented  twilight, 
a  handsome,  virile  man  at  her  side,  his  arm  about  her,  the  moon 
light  on  her  face  as  she  looked  trustfully  up  into  his.  "-He 
was  so  bonnie,"  she  murmured,  in  her  revery,  "and  kind!" 
She  awoke  with  a  shiver. 

"It's  so  different  now!  Oh,  it's  so  different.  He  ain't  any 
more  the  same  man!  It's  awful  what  liquor  can  do  to  change 
one.  First  he  was  just  restless — nervous — couldn't  keep 
any  interest  in  his  work  and  was  sort  of  irritable  when  I  tried 
to  coax  him  to  things — to  an  appetite  for  his  food  and  interest 
in  the  children.  I  didn  t  know,  I  thought  it  was  the  work; 
he'd  been  working  so  hard — the  end  of  the  wine  season,  and 
Duncan  gone.  It  was  the  work,  too,  I  suppose,  that  made  him 
crave  it.  Folks  say  the  appetite  takes  hold  more  when  you're 
tired — run  down.  He  told  me  what  was  the  matter,  at  last. 
He  said  he'd  been  drinking  too  much.  Seemed  as  if  he  had  to; 
everybody  invited  him  to  wherever  he  went  and  he's  had  to 
go  a  lot.  He's  tried  to  do  well  by  Duncan,"  her  eyes  filled, 
"he's  done  his  best,  more  than  Duncan  realizes.  Not  just 
work,  but  doing,  keeping  his  head  up  and  taking  the -place 
men,  business  men,  seemed  to  give  him  as  Duncan's  manager. 
He's  been  popular  too,"  there  was  pride  in  her  voice.  "He's 
been  asked  out  a  lot  and  I  have  too,  some,  but  I  don't  take  to 
social  things  like  Harry  and  then,  too,  this  that's  coming.  I 
couldn't. 

"So  it  all  helped  toward  the  drink,  and  he's  been  getting 
worse  and  worse.  Oh,  I  can't  tell  you — it's  terrible! 


180  THE    CLAW 

"You  know  there's  different  stages  in  the  drink.  There's 
when  a  man  has  had  just  enough  to  make  him  feel  good — to 
make  him  over  jolly,  kind  and  generous.  I  didn't  understand 
at  first,  and  I  used  to  think  those  times  were  when  Harry  was 
all  right,  was  getting  the  better  of  himself.  He's  come  home 
some  nights  to  supper  and  he  couldn't  be  kind  enough  to  me 
and  the  children,  kiss  me  and  play  with  the  babies,  like  he 
used  to,  and  we'd  all  be  so  happy  together.  But  I  came  to 
learn  that  was  just  the  first  stage  and  to  dread  it.  It  meant 
the  beginning  of  a  drunk,  that  went  from  that  to  quarrelsome 
ness  when  nobody  could  please  him  and  I  locked  the  children 
up  so's —  Marlinee's  face  was  full  of  horror  and  Elsie  caught 
herself.  "So's  they  wouldn't  irritate  him.  And  after  that 
he  was  just  gone — dead  to  the  world."  Elsie  used  the  pre 
vailing  slang  unconsciously  and  without  humor.  "No  use  to 
himself  or  anybody  else  for  days.  And  when  he  ain't  drink 
ing,  or  drunk  nowadays  he's  just  a  wreck  of  his  former  self. 
All  ambition  gone — all  his  interest  in  us — gone  all — his"- 
Elsje  began  crying  suddenly,  her  face  in  the  baby  dress.  "Seems 
as  if  all  his  love  was  gone,  too,"  she  sobbed,  her  shoulders 
shaking  in  great  gusts  of  grief,  long  repressed. 

Marlinee  was  silent,  she  found  no  words  for  such  a  tragedy. 
The  tears  filled  her  eyes  and  dropped  down  her  cheeks.  She 
reached  Elsie  with  the  comfort  of  warm  encircling  arms  but 
her  heart  was  sick.  She  felt  words  removed  from  this  woman's 
loss,  the  daily  misery  of  such  a  bereavement. 

"I  can't  tell  you  all,"  Elsie  was  speaking  again— -striving 
for  control  till  her  story  was  told.  "I  can't  tell  you — there 
are  some  things  that  a  young  woman  like  you  can't  know,  and 
whisky  changes  a  man  most  in  those  ways.  This  one  is  the 
only  baby  that  I  never  wanted.  It's  a  frightful  thing  to  be 
a  mother  when  your  whole  soul  cries  out  against  it!  When 
you  feel  it's  a  crime  to  bring  life  into  the  world!  Suppose 


THE    CLAW  181 

it  should  be  a  drunkard!  Suppose  it  would  be  crippled,  or 
blind,  or  something,"  she  spoke  in  a  whisper — "Oh  Marlinee — 
I've  heard  awful  stories  of  children  conceived  in  liquor!" 

"You  musn't  talk  about  it!  You  musn't  think  about  it," 
cried  Marlinee  with  an  echo  of  Elsie's  horror  in  her  voice. 
"You  must  think  and  pray  that  it'll  be  all  right." 

"And  you  must  stay  here,  Elsie,"  she  added,  hastening  to 
change  the  subject  for  Elsie's  face  was  white.  "You  must 
stay  here  and  not  break  with  Duncan  and  his  mother.  Now 
is  the  time  you  need  them  if  you  ever  did.  You  must  stay, 
for  the  sake  of  the  children,  and  try  and  not  blame  them. 

"I  know  just  how  you  feel — oh  I  know!" — she  added  violently. 
"It  seems  impossible  that  they  can't  see— that  be  can't  see — 
one  so  quick  to  see  and  understand — so  quick  to  feel  for  others — 
so  kind!"  her  lips  quivered,  she  was  speaking  to  herself.  Elsie 
eyed  her  curiously,  and  a  woman's  quick  intuition  came  to 
her. 

"Marlinee,  dear,"  she  said  tenderly,  and  Marlinee  started. 
"Marlinee — I  pray  God  you  may  never  meet  a  fate  like  mine. 
Never,  oh,  never  think  for  a  moment  of  marrying  a  man  that 
drinks — a  man  that  drinks,  even  just  a  little."  She  spoke 
eagerly,  intensely,  forgetting  her  own  troubles  for  the  moment 
in  the  solicitude  she  felt  for  her  friend.  "No  matter  how 
temperate  he  is — how  self-controlled;  especially  if  it's  in  the 
family — Marlinee — don't  do  it,  you  never  can  tell — look  at 
me\"  Marlinee  smiled  faintly — 

"Thank  you,  dear,  she  said,  "don't  worry  about  me — I — 
I  never  shall." 

Marlinee  left  Elsie  more  burdened  than  she  had  been  for 
many  months.  It  had  not  been  a  happy  way  of  spending  her 
week-end  holiday,  not  a  helpful  preparation  for  the  week  before 
her,  its  work  carried  not  too  easily  by  her  these  days.  She 
thought  wonderingly  of  the  strangeness  of  things.  For  weeks 


182  THE    CLAW 

she  had  borne  the  burden  of  tragedies  induced  by  the  evil 
she  hated  with  all  her  heart  and  intelligence.  And  in  every 
case  the  incidents  involved  Duncan.  They  were  his  troubles 
that  he  brought  to  her  for  her  help  and  counsel.  Strange — 
strange  that  he  should  turn  to  her!  Strange  that  he  should 
brave  her  reproach. 

Did  he  not  care  for  that  reproach  any  more?  Was  it  nothing 
to  him,  wholly  absorbed  in  Corinne  and  in  her  approval, 
alone?  Or  was  he  still  sure,  established  in  his  own  mind  of 
his  position,  of  his  innocence  from  responsibility.  Was  he 
really,  intellectually  unable  as  she  had  averred  to  Elsie  in  her 
defense  of  him,  to  see  and  understand  that,  as  a  member  of 
the  industry,  one  of  the  growers  and  makers  of.  strong  drink, 
he  had  no  responsibility  for  those  who  used  it  to  their  hurt? 
It  was  a  conclusion  she  was  reluctant  to  admit,  such  a  reflec 
tion  did  it  assume  upon  his  mental  capacity,  on  the  ordinary 
power  of  putting  two  and  two  together  and  getting  four.  But 
it  was,  of  the  several  conclusions,  the  kindest. 

She  had  seen  Morton  before  she  left  and  the  impressions 
received  gave  her  more  concern  than  ever  for  Elsie's  future, 
He  had,  as  Elsie  said,:  changed,  changed  unbelievably  and 
terribly.  A  year  ago,  a  splendid  specimen  of  a  man  in  every 
respect  ,  the  product  of  clean  habits  and  good  blood  and  out 
of  door  living.  Now  he  was  loose-limbed,  shambling,  with 
distorted  face,  and  eyes  that  looked  askance  and  sullen.  He 
gave  her  a  reluctant  hand,  soft  to  flabbiness,  revolting  in  its 
tale  of  degeneracy  and  self-indulgence.  She  could  have  cried 
out  with  the  shame  of  it — the  wickedness  of  it  all! 

She  realized  more  and  more  as  she  sat  in  Morton's  shabby 
home  where  Elsie's  care  had  failed  to  cover  to  the  eye,  the 
growing  poverty,  the  awful  grip  of  the  habit,  how  it  loosens 
the  fibers  of  control  and  volition,  turning  the  man,  in  the 
affirmations  of  his  degenerated  will  and  the  impulses  of  his 


THE    CLAW  183 

poisoned  body  over  to  the  ravages  of  an  appetite  that  leaves 
him  not  till  the  breath  is  out  of  his  body. 

She  looked  on  the  thing  with  a  fainting  wonder.  But,  she 
remembered  Duncan's  argument,  the  argument  of  all  the 
users  or  makers  of  liquor.  "Our  business  is  not  designed  for 
the  purpose  of  making  drunkards.  These  are  the  weak,  that 
fall  by  the  wayside  as  do  some  in  the  pursuit  of  all  the  good 
things  of  life." 

"Not  designed  to  make  drunkards?"  she  thought.  Drunkards 
are  the  necessary  accompaniments  of  that  business.  How  does  a 
man  make  money  in  the  grocery  business?  By  selling  his  goods, 
by  making  patronage  for  himself.  Who  are  his  best  patrons? 
Those  that  buy  the  most  goods.  Very  well  then — does  the 
man  that  drinks  temperately  buy  the  most  liquor  or  the  man 
that  drinks  to  excess?"  She  laughed  in  the  scorn  of  her  reason 
ing.  "And  if,"  her  mind  told  her  "if  by  the  buying  of  much 
goods,  the  drunkard  is  cut  off  and  his  patronage  thereby  cut 
off,  such  loss  does  not  alter  the  argument  so  long  as  there 
are  patrons  to  fill  his  place,  other  patrons,  other  users  in  excess 
to  hand  across  the  counter  daily  their  toll,  their  contribution 
to  the  daily  proceeds  of  the  saloon  man's  business,  price  of 
their  manhood,  their  efficiency,  their  happiness  and  that  of 
those  dependent  on  them,  that  the  liquor  man's  institution  may 
flourish." 

Her  throat  was  hot  with  the  hurt  of  it,  with  the  resentment 
of  it,  with  the  bitter  knowledge  that  many  who  were  wise  and 
kindly  and  of  large  heart,  like  Duncan,  refused  to  see,  shut 
their  eyes  determinedly  to  the  light,  that  admitted,  would 
blight  with  its  awful  revelation,  but,  blighting,  bring  freedom 
from  bondage  to  a  responsibility  that  one  day  they  would 
faint  before. 


CHAPTER   XXIII 

Marlinee,  capable  of  fine  flights  of  spirit,  of  sustained  heroism 
of  mind,  was,  like  all  temperamental  people,  apt  to  suffer  a 
severe  slump  after  such  an  indulgence.  Her  sympathies  were 
ingrowing  and  presently  reached  a  level  of  hurt  that  showed  an 
outward  irritation  and  loss  of  poise. 

"By  George!  You've  got  a  bad  temper  today,"  exclaimed 
Barton,  next  morning,  as  Marlinee  set  the  telephone  down  with 
unnecessary  emphasis  after  an  ineffectual  attempt  to  locate 
a  week-end  party.  " Wouldn't  like  to  have  you  land  on  me 
like  that!"  Mar  inee  made  a  grimace,  shoved  her  sleeves  up 
an  inch  higher  and  dove  into  the  exchanges. 

"Marlinee's  mad  and  I  am  glad,"  sang  Hayward,  whittling 
down  a  pencil  over  the  waste  basket.  " Marlinee  turned  me 
down  yesterday  for  one  of  her  little  charity  joints  out  to  the 
country.  Better  have  gone  with  me,  my  lady!  You  wouldn't 
have  come  home  with  a  grouch  from  a  trip  to  the  river  in  my 
stimulating  company." 

"Say,  Marlinee,"  drawled  Winston  from  his  corner,  "When 
will  you  begin  stumping  the  country  for  state^wide  prohibi 
tion?  You  and  old  Fessendon  would  make  a  cracker-jack 
team  tmd,  I  might  add,  in  the  terms  of  the  classic,  in-vin-ci- 

bki" 

Marlinee  flashed  upon  him  with  unexpected  spirit.  She 
was  accustomed  to  the  boy's  raillery  and  ordinarily  gave  and 
took  with  equal  heart,  but  Winston  had  touched  a  thorn 
today. 

"I'd  start  out  this  minute,  if  I  could,  if  I  thought  it  would 
do  any  good.  Oh,  you  laugh,  you  boys,  at  this  thing,  with 
you  its  a  case  of  the  frog:  its  fun  for  you,  but  its  death  to  a 
lot  of  people.  And  I've  been  where  its  death — the  booze — 


THE    CLAW  185 

one  family,  or  what  is  just  as  bad,  the  loss  of  everything  that 
makes  a  home,  love,  faithfulness,  a  man  once  one  of  the  finest 
ever,  changed  to  a — besotted  brute." 

"Say,"  asked  Hayward,  with  concern,  "Is  it  so  bad  out 
there —  '  he  finished  with  an  inference.  Marlinee  had  told 
him  the  occasion  of  her  visit  to  the  country. 

"Its  just  that  bad,  and  more  than  that,"  answered  the  girl. 
''It's  Harry  Morton  I'm  talking  of" — Marlinee  pursued,  turn 
ing  to  the  rest  of  the  boys — "I  don't  care  to  gossip,  but  I  know 
you're  all  interested  in  him."  It  occurred  to  her  that  here 
she  might  make  a  point  for  a  cause  that  the  boys  treated  with 
rolicking  lightness,  whether  in  deprecation  or  in  mere  fun  of 
rousing  her  defense,  she  could  never  quite  be  sure. 

Morton  in  his  new  role  of  good  fellow  was  known  to  the 
boys  and  was  formerly  a  not  infrequent  visitor  to  the  office. 
He  had  risen  with  rather  conspicuous  rapidity  from  the  place 
of  a  day  laborer  to  that  of  a  man  of  affairs — the  affairs  of  his 
employer  to  be  sure,  but  nevertheless,  administered  until  the 
past  year  with  a  credit  and  efficiency  that  gained  him  respect 
and  a  degree  of  recognition  among  the  larger  business  men 
with  whom  he  had  to  deal.  Morton  belonged  to  a  class  of 
men  the  rapid  life  of  the  times  and  particularly  the  west  pro 
vides  for,  by  dropping  out  one  generation  in  the  normal  course 
of  development. 

From  an  obscure  employee  on  Cameron's  place  Morton  had 
become  practically  a  town  man,  a  guest  of  the  city's  represen 
tative  bodies  on  banquet  occasions,  solicited  as  a  member  of 
the  city's  clubs,  taking  his  wine  at  his  favorite  cafe  instead  of 
Arbuckle's  coffee  in  his  shirt  sleeves  at  his  own  table.  It  was 
a  transformation  dangerous  in  its  rapidity  and  new  experiences. 
The  risk  was  doubled  by  the  means  of  the  inseparable  accom 
paniment  in  modern  life  of  the  social  drinking  custom.  Since 
his  rapid  decline  he  was  dubbed  "false  alarm."  In  other  words, 


186  THE    CLAW 

the  world,  the  small  world  represented  by  Riverdale's  business 
and  social  circles  was  credited  with  having  been  "stung" 
in  regard  to  its  latest  protege:  a  man  who  promised  well  but 
had  not  enough  running  in  him  to  last  two  years.  It  was  bad. 
Compassion  seemed  to  be  on  the  side  of  society  with  little  but 
a  contemptuous  pity  cast  Morton's  way.  Marlinee  resented 
the  verdict  with  all  her  outraged  sense  of  justice.  Now  she 
related  with  eloquence  lent  by  her  deep  feeling,  the  circum 
stances  of  the  little  family,  Elsie's  grief  and  the  startling  change 
in  Morton.  The  boys  listened  with  interest  and  concern. 

"Well,  I  call  that  a  pretty  bad  case,"  s?id  Winston,  "but 
my  sympathies  don't  go  far  with  the  man,"  Winston  was  new 
in  the  town.  "A  fellow  that  hasn't  enough  sense  to  stop 
drinking  when  he's  had  enough  isn't  worth  much  sympathy 
and  a  man  that's  so  far  gone  that  he  can  steal  from  his  wife 
and  babies  to  feed  his  stomach  ought  to  get  off  the  earth — 
the  sooner,  the  quicker." 

"Well,  1  don't  know,"  answered  Hayward,  "I'm  disappointed 
in  Morton.  Morton  was  a  good  sort,  and  he  seemed  like  a 
mighty  good  fellow  before  the  booze  caught  him.  Its  physical 
with  him — with  all  of  them,  the  regular  boozers — they  oughtn't 
to  be  blamed.  There  ought  to  be  some  regulation — some — 
he  was  getting  rather  vague  and  Gordon  laughed. 

"Prohibition!  Prohibition  is  what  you  mean.  Say,  Mar- 
linee's  made  a.  convert.  Listen  to  Hayward,  Marlinee!" 
Hayward  looked  annoyed,  not  because  of  association  with  the 
reformer,  but  with  the  cause. 

"Aw — rats!"  he  said.  "I  don't  mean  any  such  thing,  but 
I'm  not  the  kind  of  a  fellow  that  jumps  on  a  man  when  he's 
down  and  there's  no  telling  either,  by  George,  who'll  be  the 
next  one  down.  It's  physical  I  tell  you — 'chemical' — as 
London  says — the  craving  for  it.  A  lot  of  the  best  hearted 
fellows,  the  best  sort  in  their  families,  come  to  it,  to  just  the 


THE    CLAW  187 

sort  of  thing  Morton's  induced  for  his  wife  and  kids.  That's 
the  darned  trouble  about  it."  The  boys  looked  askanse  and 
at  each  other  with  significance.  His  heavy  lids  and  deeply 
encircled  eyes  suggested  a  growing  experience  in  the  things 
of  which  he  spoke  and  a  reason  for  his  partisanship  with  Morton. 
They  liked  Hay  ward,  but  he,  too,  was  a  "good  fellow"  a 
"prince." 

"Well,  shake  up  and  toss  out,  it's  all  a  game  of  chance  any 
way,"  Norris  contributed  his  youthful  philosophy — the  deduc 
tions  of  twenty-one.  "By  Heck,  here's  your  champion,  Mar- 
linee!  Here's  Scott-Browne  in  the  ring  and  rolling  up  his 
sleeves!"  The  men  wheeled  with  cordial  greeting  and  Marlinec 
rose  from  her  chair.  It  was  a  strange  impulse  she  had  in  Fes- 
sendon's  presence. 

"Copy — men,  Copy,"  called  the  city  editor,  wheeling  in 
his  swivel  chair  at  the  end  of  the  room.  "Get  busy  you — 
I  want  some  dope.  Scott,  you  demoralize  my  office!  I'll 
tend  to  you  over  here."  He  reached  for  a  chair  and  waved 
Fessendon  to  it.  His  face  reflected  the  same  pleasure  as  the 
boys'  and  Marlinee's.  Fessendon  turned,  greeted  the  boys 
and  took  Marlinee's  hand  with  a  swift  and  eager  smile,  then 
he  moved  to  McWhirter's  desk  and  dropped  into  the  chair 
provided  by  him.  He  stretched  his  long  legs  lazily. 

McWhirter  jabbed  a  page  of  copy  on  the  hook,  shoved  his 
desk  clear,  reached  for  a  match  from  an  unspeakably  dirty 
and  ancient  box  and  lit  a  cigar.  Then  he  whirled 
around  on  Fessendon. 

"Now  fire  away!"  he  said.  "McWhirter  was  never  too  busy 
to  see  Fessendon.  The  two  had  never  been  known  to  agree 
on  a  single  point  but  they  were  the  best  of  friends.  It  was 
a  battle  royal  when  they  got  together.  The  men  within  hear 
ing  of  the  argument  found  it  difficult  to  hold  their  attention 
to  their  work  when  "Me"  and  "Fess"  were  having  a  hot  one. 


188  THE    CLAW 

Fessendon  was  the  president  of  the  local  Dry  Federation. 
His  hyphenated  surname,  Scott-Browne,  bestowed  upon  him 
by  his  ambitious  parents,  had  stood,  a  dozen  years  back  for 
club  man  and  society  man  and  an  all  'round  good  fellow.  But 
a  light  had  fallen  on  Scott-Browne,  a  light  the  fierce  flame  of 
which  welded  the  diversified  personality  of  the  man  into  one 
vigorous  individuality  bent  on  a  single  object — that  of  passing 
on  the  light  to  his  fellows. 

Fessendon  was  a  Scotchman,  a  giant  in  size,  with  intellect 
to  match.  Gaunt,  lean,  muscular,  with  a  peculiar  subtle 
strength  that  never  flagged  and  a  mentality,  keen  and  insati 
able.  His  powers  of  mind  and  body  slept  within  him  like  the 
strength  of  a  hound.  In  his  indolent,  almost  lazy  manner, 
his  easy  gait,  the  seeming  lassitude  of  his  great  limbs  stretched 
at  ease  in  grotesque  pose,  a  whimsical  smile  on  his  lean  face 
and  eyes  that  seemed  to  dream,  there  was  nothing  to  suggest 
the  innate  power  of  the  man;  the  tremendous  unflagging  energy 
of  which  he  was  possessed,  the  stubborn  resistance,  the  power 
of  fight.  One  was  unprepared  for  the  effect  when 
Fessendon  drowsily  and  with  seeming  reluctance  uncovered 
his  batteries  and  took  to  the  defense  in  argument. 

McWhirter  provided  Fessendon's  antithesis.  Of  dynamic 
type,  rotund  and  irascible,  with  lightning-like  perception  and 
talents  of  retort,  but  a  somewhat  impeded  speech.  His  was 
an  uneasy  mind,  sensitive,  keen,  with  quick  humor  well  tipped 
with  irony — the  mental  constitution  of  the  critic  and  the 
pessimist. 

"What  do  you  want,  Scott?  For  a  man  who  pretends  to 
work  you're  the  laziest  looking  scout  I  know  of."  Fessendon 
grinned  appreciatively  and  stretched  one  long  leg.  "Dope," 
he  said,  briefly. 

"Dope?"  growled  McWhirter,  "thought  we'd  been  giving 
you  dope — a  lot  of  it." 


THE    CLAW  189 

"More,"  said  Fessendon — he  had  hooked  a  morning  exchange 
with  his  long  arm  and  was  scanning  with  the  utmost  diversion 
the  "Van  Loon"  family. 

"Come  out  of  it!"  cried  McWhirter,  "What  'ch  think— 
we're  running? — prohibition  supply  house?  Headquarters  of 
the  Band  of  Hope?" 

"No,"  drawled  Scott-Browne,  withdrawing  his  attention 
with  evident  reluctance  from  the  Van  Loons,  "You're  running 
a  bum,  one-horse  sheet  that  doesn't  know  live  news  matter 
when  it  sees  it  or  it  would  have  had  a  man  to  cover  the  debate 
at  the  Park  last  night  when  our  man  from  'Frisco  made  your 
man  from  San  Jose  eat  dirt  to  the  tune  of  2,000 
people  cheering  to  beat  the  band.  Rehashing  the  Sun  story 
this  morning — mistakes  and  all,  I  reckon?"  McWhirter  red 
dened.  He  hadn't  looked  for  Fessendon  to  land  from  this 
direction  and  it  was  true,  he  had  forgotten  to  give  out  the  Park 
assignment.  He  capitulated  gracefully. 

"By  Gad,  Fessendon,  That  was  an  oversight — sure  it  was, 
and  I'm  sorry  for  it.  That  was  something  worth  while,  too, 
one  of  the  genuine  real  live  shows  you've  pulled  off  this  cam 
paign.  Most  of  'em  have  been  the  'Father,  Oh,  Fethef,  Come 
Home  to  Me  Now/  tear-duct-flooding  racket  that  wasn't 
worth  the  space  we  gave  'em.  Say  I'm  sorry — sure!" 

Fessendon  ignored  both  apology  arid  criticism  and  con 
tinued  unemotionally. 

"I  want  some  dope,  some  more  dope — a  lot  of  it.  This 
proposition  is  worth  your  space.  People  want  it — they're 
reading  it.  The  Searchlight  (the  Journal's  contemporary) 
is  putting  it  all  over  you  in  this  matter.  They're  giving  us  a 
column  daily.  The  Sun  takes  all  we  want  to  give  'em — iVe 
just  arranged  for  that.  Now  what'll  you  do?"  McWhirtef 
threw  his  cigar  away  and  lighted  another. 

"Well — you  have  the  nerve!"  he  enunciated  between  puffs, 


190  THE    CLAW 

with  unusual  deliberation.  "You  have  the  nerve  to  come  here 
and  ask  for  space  and  a  reporter  detailed  on  your  fool  Dry 
proposition  when  you  know  the  sheet  is  a  Wet  paper,  so  wet 
you  can  wring  it  out.  Ask  me  to  edit  a  column,  daily!  Maybe 
you  want  two  columns,  played  up  with  a  feature  head  and  some 
of  our  latest  fancy  type."  Fessendon  grinned.  He  was 
certain  of  McWhirter  after  his  Searchlight  coup.  Wet  or  no 
Wet  he  would  never  let  the  new  sheet  put  it  over  him  in  the 
nature  of  a  new  feature.  But  McWhirter  would  have  his 
say  first. 

"Say,"  continued  McWhirter,  warming  up,  "you  don't 
seem  to  realize  that  your  whole  proposition  makes  me  tired — 
awfully  tired.  You  prohibitionists  want  to  put  the  liquor 
industry  of  California  out  of  business,  want  to  put  the  winery 
business,  the  state's  been  to  such  pains  and  expense  to  build, 
out  of  business;  want  to  put  the  wine -grape  growers  out  of 
business  and  put  some  seventy  million  dollars  worth  of  property 
out  of  vineyard  use  because  a  few  people  assigned  by  providence 
to  be  asses  insist  on  making  asses  of  themselves!" 

"I'm  glad,  at  least,  that  you  keep  to  the  facts  better  than 
your  contemporary,  the  Sun,"  interupted  Fessendon.  "You 
notice  in  his  editorial  the  other  day  he  claims  the  destruction 
of  170,000  acres  of  fertile  California  land,  if  the  Dry  amend 
ment  carries.  Reckon  prohibition  is  going  to  make  things  so 
awful  dry  that  there  won't  be  irrigation  water  left — eh?  That's 
the  only  thing  I  know  of  that  will  keep  those  acres  from  which 
the  wine  grapes  are  rooted  from  growing  peaches  at  four  to 
six  cents  a  pound,  table  grapes  at  thirty  dollars  a  ton,  raisins 
at  three  and  one-half  cents,  poultry  and  dairy  herds.  Maybe 
prohibition  will  dry  up  the  cows  though — "  added  Fessendon, 
thoughtfully.  Whereat  McWhirter  threw  up  his  head  and 
snorted,  but  he  returned  to  his  bone. 

"You  reformers — you  make  me  tired — in  bulk  and  indivi- 


THE    CLAW  191 

dually.  You're  making  the  world  over  for  the  unfit.  By 
till  your  societies'  for  the  prevention  of  and  clubs  for  'to  pro 
vide  for'- — you're  overdoing  it,  all  this  concern  for  the  failures, 
the  weaklings,  the  culls  of  life.  Why,  man,  the  world  won't 
be  fit  for  a  normal  individual  to  live  in,  pretty  soon.  (  You'll 
have  us  all  on  crutches — one  big,  jolly  sanitarium  where  we'll 
live  in  the  half  light  and  eat  pre-digested  food  only!  All 
levelled  to  one  satisfactory  plane  of  insanity — that's  altruism 
for  you,  the  altruism  that's  rampant  today! 

"And  your  prohibition  idea  is  just  one  of  those  fool  move 
ments;  one  of  the  dreams  of  the  altruist-crazed.  It  designs 
to  remove  just  one  more  opportunity  of  choice,  of  self-control, 
a  chance  where  a  fellow  can  show  the  kind  of  stuff  he  is — 
whether  a  guzzling  stomach-guided  animal  or  a  man. 

"No— I'm  talking  rightl"  continued  McWhirter.  "We're 
uplift-mad  already.  We  make  a  fad  of  our  reforms;  the  white 
slave  traffic  and  criminality — juvenile  delinquency — are  the 
subjects  of  every  pulpit  and  lecture  platform  in  the  land.  Why 
you'd  think  there  wasn't  a  normal  child  born  nowadays  and 
that  those  fortunate  enough  to  have  been  born  normal  haven't 
a  show  in  the  world  of  growing  up  right.  It's  having  its  effect, 
that  talk.  Thousands  of  young,  well-intentioned  wives  are 
scared  out  of  the  idea  of  having  a  family  by  the  improbability 
of  bringing  a  sound  and  sane  child  into  the  world  and  keeping 
him  so.  Sure,  that's  right!  A  little  newly-wed  was  talking 
to  my  wife  the  other  day  about  it — almost  in  tears  she  was; 
said  she  wanted  a  baby,  but  she  had  the  latest  statistics  to 
show  that  it  was  a  six  to  one  risk  and  she  was  scared  out.  Now 
what  do  you  know  about  that! 

"Our  best  women  today  are  so  engrossed  in  work  for  the 
Unfit  that  they've  left  off  bringing  forth  the  Fit.  I  can't 
help  thinking  of  it  when  I  see  the  splendid  specimens  of  woman 
hood  at  the  head  of  your  huundred  and  one  institutions  'for 


192  THE    CLAW 

the  interests  of — single  women  that  would  make  glorious  wives 
and  mothers,  fitted  by  the  very  things  that  make  them  useful 
in  their  work — devotion,  self-sacrifice,  the  maternal  instinct — 
for  woman's  normal  life.  Damn  it!  It  makes  me  hot  through 
and  through.  You're  making  spinsters  and  nuns  of  the  best 
womanhood  in  the  land.  They're  wasting  their  lives  in  a 
misguided  sense  of  duty  on  the  wrecks  of  the  world — the  junk 
stuff — thousands  of  them  that  ought  to  be  serving  the  world 
by  putting  clean  normal  blood  into  it  in  the  form  of  their 
own  offspring. 

"Duty!"  McWhirter  mopped  his  brow  with  his  pocket 
handkerchief  and  continued.  "Duty!  An  exagerated  sense 
of  duty — abnormal  ideals — are  making  old  maids  of  our  girls 
and  of  our  boys,  spindle-shanked  young  prigs  who  talk  at 
prayer  meetings  and  give  the  impression  that  they  have  a 
corner  on  the  Lord.  'Don't'  is  your  watch-word.  'Don't 
dare  a  little  innocent  deviltry,  you'll  set  a  bad  example!  Don't 
entertain  a  big  strong  passion — it  may  run  away  with  you! 
'Do  t  drink  a  glass  of  beer/  you'll  die  a  drunkard  and  send 
others  to  a  drunkard's  grave.  Don't  do  anything  natural,  or 
spontaneous,  or  what  you  want  to  do — self  denial,  repression, 
inhibition,  is  the  word.  Bring  up  the  boys  hand  raised,  spoon 
fed.  And  then  you  expect  a  race  of  men  from  their  loins." 
Shortage  of  breath  was  the  only  consideration  apparently,  that 
stopped  McWhirter. 

Fessendon  had  listened  to  the  editor's  words  with  more  than 
ordinary  interest.  It  was  a  subject  that  appealed  to  him  and 
for  once  the  two  men's  ideas  coincided.  Fessendon  acknow 
ledged  in  the  teachings  of  the  churches,  at  least  in  the  past, 
ideals  that  tended  to  the  repression  of  youthful  impulses,  to  an 
unnecessary  withdrawal  from  normal  activities  and  pleasures, 
but  this  flaw,  he  felt,  was  being  largely  eradicated.  He  in  no 
way  confused  these  mistakes  of  over  zeal  on  the  part  of  religious 


THE     CLAW  193 

instructors  with  the  movements  designed  to  restrain  the  vicious 
preying;  on  those  same  youthful  impulses,  substituting  for 
self-denial,  excess;  for  exaggerated  piety,  dissipation.  He 
roused  himself  from  the  negligent  posture  in  which  he  had  been 
listening  to  the  editor,  shook  out  his  long  legs  with  a  character 
istic  movement,  and  started  to  answer  McWhirter  when  the 
latter  was  interrupted.  A  couple  of  youths  had  entered  the 
office.  They  were  a  well  known  type;  two  showily  dressed 
young  "mashers"  with  hats  tilted  to  their  eye-brows,  trailing 
the  odor  of  cigarettes  and  beer.  One  was  already  well  loaded. 
As  his  companion  talked,  he  groped  for  and  found  the  wall, 
with  evident  relief,  leaning  heavily  against  it,  while  he  eyed 
Marlinee,  afar,  with  bleared  and  approving  eyes,  hopeful  of 
attention. 

"What  do  you  want?"  asked  McWhirter  impatiently. 

"Does  Banty  Brewster  work  here?"  the  first  youth  asked. 

"Banty  Brewster,  who  is  he?  What  does  he  do?"  asked 
McWhirter,  shortly.  The  boy  burst  into  a  coarse  laugh,  blow 
ing  the  smoke  ostentatiously  from  his  tilted  lips. 

"  'He,'  that's  good.  'He!'  Why  Banty  ain't  a  'he',  she's 
a  'she',  a  goil,  a  'Chicken' — see?  Folds  papers  in  here,  or  some 
joint." 

"Well,  she's  not  here;  or  none  of  your  kind,"  said  McWhirter, 
contemptuously  and  turned  his  back  on  him.  The  youth  cast 
a  resentful  look  at  his  squared  shoulders  and  slouched  out, 
followed  with  some  difficulty  by  his  companion. 

"Well,  I'm  not  stuck,  myself,  on  spindle-shanked  young  men 
who  talk  in  prayer-meetings  as  though  they  had  a  corner  on  the 
Lord,"  commented  Fessendon,  gently,  but  I'd  about  as  lief 
have  them  as  those  two  chaps.  They're  certainly  not  leading 
the  ascetic  life.  I'll  warrant  those  two  aren't  afraid  to  drink 
beer  because  they'll  set  a  bad  example,  or  get  into  deviltry,  or 
refuse  a  big  passion.  They're  letting  the  natural  animal  have 


194  THE    CLAW 

its  way  but  they're  not  very  pretty,  or  useful,  are  they  now? 
Nor  will  they  breed  a  normal  and  admirable  generation. 

"Fact  is,  it's  pretty  hard  to  strike  the  happy  medium  or  to 
know  what  that  'medium'  is,  even.  A  little  too  much  one  side 
of  the  beam  and  you  run  to  asceticism,  a  little  too  much  the 
other  and  you're  back  to  the  brute. 

"But  while  you're  talking  of  the  inhibitions  of  altruism,  the 
self-denials  of  the  man  with  ideals  and  the  reduction  of  virility 
and  offspring  among  good  people,  I  want  to  say  that  you're  off 
in  your  comparisons.  Take  it  all  in  all,  who  are  the  people  that 
are  marrying,  staying  married  and  keeping  up  the  business  of 
populating  the  world — the  people  of  the  churches  or  the  people 
of  the  world?  Why,  there  isn't  any  comparison.  If  you  don't 
think  so  look  at  the  young  people  of  one  of  our  churches,  any 
of  them,  and  the  young  society  set,  member  of  the  'Entre  Nous' 
Club,  say!  There  are  some  young  men  and  women  unhampered 
by  the  enthusiasms  of  the  humanitarian,  the  impulsions  of  the 
philanthropist.  What  do  you  say  about  it? 

"Don't  make  the  mistake  McWhirter,  of  charging  up  the 
spindle-shanked  young  men  and  the  spinsters  to  religion  or  high 
ideals.  I  admit  we  have  both,  and  I  regret  it,  but  devotion 
and  religion  doesn't  make  either." 

"Well,  it  does,  and  a  lot  of  the  grossness  in  the  world  that 
you  deplore  and  preach  against  is  the  result  of  our  ultra-cultured, 
ultra-educated  age,"  asserted  McWhirter,  testily. 

"Maybe  so  and  if  so — if  it's  just  a  reaction  from  our  moral 
exaggerations — then  it  isn't  to  be  too  much  deplored.  It'll 
serve  to  restore  the  equilibrium.  But  this  is  just  where  the 
work  of  alcohol — of  the  drink  habit — comes  in.  It  helps  to 
accentuate  the  reaction ;  it  impels  people  to  the  opposite  extreme ; 
induces  grossness,  self-indulgence  and  animalism. 

"You  credit  religion  and  exalted  ideals  with  robbing  the 
world  of  home-makers,"  continued  Scott-Browne,  "you  deplore 


THE    CLAW  195 

that  the  finest  womanhood  of  the  land  is  devoted  to  spinsterhood 
and  philanthropy  instead  of  the  rearing  of  their  own  children. 

"Why  aren't  they  doing  it?  Because  they  aren't  mated. 
Where  arc  their  mates?  The  unmarried  men,  the  so-called 
bachelors,  men  of  ability,  of  fascination  and  virility,  that  should 
co-operate  in  that  noble  enterprise? 

" Spilling  their  seed  in  the  houses  of  assignation,  giving  them 
selves  to  the  Scarlet  Woman,  to  death-heads,  heedless  that  their 
natural  mates,  pure  women,  beautiful  women,  women  of 
glorious  possibilities — arc  going  mateless  and  homeless  and 
childless  all  the  days  of  their  woman's  bloom. 

" Where  is  the  pride  of  our  men  in  their  seed?  Where  is 
their  ambition,  where  even  those  nobler  qualities  of  the  brute 
man,  the  instinct  for  their  home,  mate,  and  offspring?  Lost, 
lost  I  say,  in  pure  brutishness;  worse  than  brutishness,  for  the 
brute  is  normal,  he  recognizes  law  in  his  passion. 

"Is  this  a  reaction  from  asceticism,  from  over  culture  and  the 
restraints  of  religion?  I  guess  not.  It  is  a  thing  provided  for 
in  large  part  by  that  which  I  would  eliminate.  What  destroys 
a  man's  interest  in  the  pure  and  lovely  girl  he  thought  to  marry 
and  causes  him  to  forego  marriage  to  seek  the  strange  women? 
Drink,  the  polite  habit  of  wine,  if  your  please! 

"What  causes  divorce,  the  disruption  of  families,  children  on 
the  street?  Drinkl  What  makes  boys  impulsive  before  their 
time  and  degrades  them  to  the  uses  of  vice?  Wine  drinking 
among  our  young  people  in  your  inviting  cafes  and  enter 
tainment  places. 

"Yet  you  wouldn't  put  a  stop  to  this  thing,  and  you  talk 
airily  of  the  'survival  of  the  fittest.'  Well,  give  the  Fit  a  chance 
to  survive,  that's  what  I  say!  It  isn't  the  'fittest'  that  always 
survive,  not  by  any  means.  Not  against  the  odds  that  modern 
civilization,  so-called,  provides.  The  fittest  survives  when  he's 
got  the  open  to  fight  in  and  his  two  fists  and  his  unhampered 


196  THE     CLAW 

brain,  but  how  about  the  war?  A  handful  of  monarchs  who, 
themselves  survive  only  because  illegitimate  blood  is  infused 
into  their  line  occasionally  call  a  great  war  and  the  Fit  go 
down  in  battle,  by  the  thousands,  by  the  millions;  the  Fit,  I  say. 
And  who  remain?  The  weaklings  and  the  old  men  who  couldn't 
go  to  war  because  of  their  infirmities.  There's  a  case  where 
the  Unfit  has  induced  the  conditions  that  killed  the  Fit. 

"How  about  the  great  fevers  and  plagues  in  the  Canal 
Zone,  in  the  Indian  colonies?  Did  the  Fit  go  down  there? 
Sure  they  did.  Men  of  strength  and  endurance,  men  who  had 
lived  through  the  viscissitudes  of  a  hundred  campaigns,  men 
who  had  tramped  thousands  of  miles  through  forest-thicket 
and  over  desert.  A  few  fever  germs  too  virulent  for  a  strong 
man  to  resist  carried  them  off  by  the  hundreds  and  thousands. 
And  now  that  we  know  they  are  able  to  do  it — war  and  disease — 
we're  looking  after  both.  We've  established  a  great  sanitary 
system  and  outlawed  disease  germs  wherever  we  find  'em  and 
we've  called  a  peace  conference  to  eliminate  war;  we  can't  afford 
to  lose  the  flower  of  manhood,  the  promise  of  our  race,  by  either 
way. 

"This  isn't  all  the  ways  we're  looking  after  the  conservation 
of  humanity;  take  our  factory  problems.  There  are  thousands 
of  men  and  women  in  them  of  good  clean  hearty  blood,  the  Fit. 
But  can  they  stand  the  strain  their  industrial  life  puts  upon 
them,  the  deadly  fumes  of  the  factories,  the  one-hundred  and 
thirty  degree  heat  of  some  of  the  great  furnaces  before  which  men 
sweat,  naked — the  whirl  of  the  wheel  and  flash  of  the  needle 
close  to  the  eye  for  harrowing  hours?  They  sicken,  they  die, 
and  we've  found  it  out  and  said  this  can't  be!  A  few  men  to 
build  up  a  great  wealth  can't  drive  these  men  and  women  into 
early  graves,  men  and  women  meant  to  survive,  and  bring  forth 
the  strong  industrious  race.  We've  got  the  eight  hour  law  for 


THE    CLAW  197 

women.  We've  got  provisions  for  decreasing  the  risk  to  life  and 
limb  and  health.  In  all  these  things  we've  showed  sense. 

"But  take  the  liquor  traffic.  Is  it  carrying  off  only  the  Unfit, 
the  weaklings,  the  degenerates  that  we're  better  off  without? 

"Was  Wakefield  an  Unfit,  a  weakling?  Middleson,  the  best 
criminal  attorney  in  this  State  or  any  other  state  on  the  coast, 
was  Middleson  a  weakling,  drift  wood,  junk  stuff?  Was  Carter 
of  the  Consolidated  one  of  the  riff-raff,  the  world's  wastes?  Is 
Hayward,  over  there,  the  best  man  you've  got,  is  he  unfit  to 
survive?  I  guess  not.  I  guess  they're  all  about  as  good  as 
you  and  I  and  a  lot  of  others  that  expect  to  and  probably  will 
live  our  days  out.  But  the  booze  got  them,  or  is  getting  them. 

"And  why?  Because  it's  bigger  than  them.  Because  it's 
not  a  case  of  brain  against  a  brain  and  arm  against  an  arm.  It's 
an  infernal  system  maintained  by  your  and  my  senile  reasoning 
that's  designed  to  destroy,  and  to  destroy,  who?  The  Fit, 
the  best  in  the  land\ 

"It's  a  thing  a  man  can't  get  away  from;  it's  a  thing  that 
follows  him,  that  pulls  at  his  coat  and  jogs  his  elbow  and  says, 
'Take  me  with  you,  I'm  the  price  of  your  success.'  No?  How 
does  Hayward  get  his  political  scoops?  By  being  a  good  fellow, 
sitting  over  at  the  St.  George  grill  with  Bartley  and  Havermeyer 
and  the  rest,  cozy  and  sociable  over  their  cocktails,  getting  on 
the  'inside'.  How  does  Barton  keep  his  popularity  with  the 
sports?  By  'setting  'em  up'.  How  does  little  Norris  get  a 
good  story  tipped  off  to  him?  By  buying  the  beers.  And 
Smith,  traveling  salesman,  makes  his  top  notch  sales  record 
this  year  by  the  same  system  and  Hepston  lands  his  political 
job  the  same  way — the  glad  hand  and  the  booze. 

"Say!  I  wouldn't  take  Hayward's  chance  this  summer  for  a 
thousand  dollars,  between  the  courts  and  the  candidates.  It's  a 
losing  game  with  him  either  way.  Cut  out  the  booze  and  he 
loses  with  his  friends,  keep  it  up  and  he's  on  the  junk  pile  by 


198  THE    CLAW 

the  first  of  the  year.  And  as  for  little  Norris,  Man!"  cried 
Fessendon,  "it's  a  slaughter,  a  plain  slaughter  to  put  a  lad  with 
his  talents  and  determination  to  make  good  on  ''police".  Look 
at  him  now!"  He  seized  McWhirter's  arm  impulsively. 
"What  would  you  and  I,  childless  men,  not  give  to  have  a  boy 
like  that?"  McWhirter,  reluctantly  turned  and  his  eye  softened 
at  sight  of  young  N orris,  his  fine  head  flung  back,  laughter  in  his 
eyes  as  he  made  a  retort  to  one  of  the  boy's  sallies.  "In  God's 
name  McWhirter,  have  a  care  for  that  boy! 

"Now  it's  my  business,  and  the  business  of  this  Dry  state 
proposition,"  continued  Fessendon,  "to  eliminate  the  fool 
system  that  permits  a  few  men  for  their  own  benefit  to  induce 
such  waste.  Is  there  anything  wild  about  that  scheme,  any 
thing  impractical,  anything  that  shows  the  ranter  and  the 
crank? 

"Heavens,  man!  Can't  you  see  this  thing,  can't  you  see  the 
absurd  senility  of  reasoning  that  says  we've  got  to  keep  up  a 
business  that  accomplishes  all  this  loss  to  human  life;  loss 
bigger  than  war  works,  than  the  disease  we  are  studying  to 
eliminate,  accomplishes,  than  the  industrial  evils  we've  legislated 
against,  creates?  McWhirter,  I've  credited  you  in  my  mind 
always  as  being  a  man  of  exceptional  insight  but  if  you  can't 
see  the  sense  and  the  necessity,  the  dignity,  too,  of  the  work 
I'm  in,  then  I  give  you  up.  You're  not  the  man  I  thought  you 
were."  He  dropped  back  into  his  chair  again.  It  was  seldom 
he  spoke  with  such  outward  emotion.  His  was  ordinarily  the 
cool  reasoning  of  the  logician  that  pursues  relentlessly  and 
unmovedly  his  end,  levelling  his  opponents'  strongholds  one 
after  the  other  till  he  leaves  a  clean  field  behind  him. 

McWhirter  was  silent  for  a  moment.  He  would  not  confess  it 
but  Fessendon  had  carried  him  irresistibly  from  his  old  moor 
ings;  had,  indeed,  uprooted  those  moorings  to  which  his  con 
victions  and  defenses  were  tied  and  swept  them  away  altogether. 


THE    CLAW  199 

He  found  himself  adrift,  groping,  half  reaching  out  to  embrace 
Scott-Browne's  convictions  so  unimpeachably  put. 

"But  you,"  he  said.  "You  have  survived,  you've  been  all 
through  this.  You've  been  a  newspaper  man,  a  club  man,  a 
politician  and  a  man  of  society.  How  did  you  do  it?"  Fessendon 
rose  to  go. 

"By  the  grace  of  God,"  he  said  solemnly,  "only  by  the  grace 
of  God." 

McWhirter  sat  silent  in  his  chair,  absently  flecking  cigarette 
ashes.  Then  he  rose  and  moved  down  the  hall  after  Fessendon, 
as  rapidly  as  his  weighty  bulk  would  allow. 

"Fessendon,  Fessendon!"  he  called  jerkily,  "you  can  bring 
on  that  dope." 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

Shaken  by  the  harrowing  experiences  of  Antonio's  trial  and 
overcome  by  the  result,  Duncan  was  in  no  mood  to  resume  his 
investigations  of  Blythe's  business.  But  he  had  promised 
Marlinee  to  do  so  to  the  fullest  extent.  Blythe  was  waiting 
for  his  answer  and  he  set  to  work  at  once. 

From  Cliffe's  arraignment  of  the  liquor  traffic,  sweeping  in 
its  accusation,  his  mind  was  as  sore  as  from  a  physical  punish 
ment.  It  was  a  peculiar  situation,  to  be  flayed  so  unmercifully 
by  one  in  his  own  employ,  for  he  was  standing  the  greater  part 
of  the  cost  of  Antonio's  trial.  In  any  other  cause  he  would  not 
have  stood  for  it  but  by  the  very  circumstances  he  could  say 
nothing,  make  no  answer.  Cliffe's  concluding  argument  he  had 
to  admit  was  the  most  impressive  one  the  attorney  could  rally 
for  the  cause  of  the  prisoner,  and  was  justifiable  on  that  ground 
only.  Duncan  was  not  ready  to  admit  that  Cliffe  was  right 
in  his  dramatic  charge  against  the  liquor  traffic  and  the  voters 
for  the  liquor  traffic  of  guilt  for  the  Hindoo's  death.  In  an 
indirect  way,  perhaps,  yes,  as  the  man  who  made  his  automobile 
or  sold  it  to  him,  would  be  responsible  for  his  death  if  the 
machine  should  some  day  turn  turtle  and  catch  him  under  it. 
But  No!  It  was  one  of  the  sentimental  and  misguiding  argu 
ments  wielded  by  the  prohibitionists  that  pressed  logic  to  over 
drawn  conclusion.  He  was  responsible,  however — every  man 
was  responsible — for  his  own  personal  conduct,  that  it  set  an 
example  of  temperance  and  sanity,  and  for  his  choices,  that  he, 
with  scrupulous  care,  separate  evil  from  good.  It  was  this 
motive  with  which  he  took  up  the  investigation  of  Blythe's 
cafes. 

The  result  was  a  revelation,  for  Blythe's  houses  were  strictly 
up  to  specifications — the  specifications  Marlinee  had  named. 


THE    CLAW  201 

That  the  scenes  of  the  cafes,  into  the  midnight  life  of  which  he 
had  never  before  been  introduced,  amazed  and  repelled  him,  was 
a  compliment  to  his  sanity  of  mind,  his  instinct  of  self  pre 
servation.  Duncan  had  never  lent  his  passions  to  illegitimate 
use.  Instead  they  had  been  splendidly  conserved  and  enriched 
by  sober  living  and  constant  and  zestful  purpose.  He  had  a 
natural  instinct  for  the  clean,  that  caused  him  to  discourage  the 
suggestions  that  make  for  morbid  imaginings;  the  stories  told 
by  some  men  over  their  cigars  after  the  ladies  have  retired ;  the 
youthful  escapades  indulged  in  for  the  sake  of  instruction  and 
entertainment.  These  things  were  wholly  foreign  to  Duncan's 
cast  of  mind. 

He  went  to  the  cafes  alone.  Undoubtedly  he  might  have 
had  little  Norris'  company  or  that  of  any  other  of  the  men  he 
knew,  but  he  did  not  care  for  comradeship  on  these  occasions 
or  the  appearance  of  a  lark,  nor  did  he  wish  to  impart  to  any 
the  object  of  his  errand.  As  a  quiet  observer  in  a  dark  corner 
of  the  room  he  could  watch  the  scene  undisturbed  and  was 
able  to  take  in  more  of  the  garish  spectacle,  with  a  keener  sense 
of  its  meaning,  than  if  accompanied  by  a  friend. 

The  place  revealed  the  whole  method  and  regimen  of  the 
underworld.  Here  after  midnight  hours  was  its  stalking 
ground,  here  its  reciuiting  place,  at  the  tables  running  with 
the  wine  spilled  by  the  revellers.  Here  the  painted  face  of  a 
denizen  of  the  redlight  was  pushed  close  to  that  of  callow  youth, 
blushing  under  his  baby  skin,  whose  brave  swagger  and  as 
sumption  of  experience  told  it  to  be  his  first  experimental  foray 
into  the  whirl-pool  of  viciousness.  He  saw  the  ease  with  which 
she  trailed  him  away  presently,  weaving  and  hiccoughing, 
eager  in  her  wake. 

He  saw  the  scared  faces  of  first  night  girls,  mere  children, 
"doing"  the  place  under  the  tutelage  of  companions  of  exper 
ience,  or  some  man  of  the  world,  some  roue  of  a  hundred  such 


202  THE    CLAW 

damnable  enterprises,  who  watched  the  fair,  surprised  blushes 
come  and  go  from  his  covert  shadow  with  covetousness  and 
complacency. 

He  recognized  with  a  start  of  amazement,  men  he  knew. 
elbowing  their  way  through  the  noisy  shuffling  crowd,  pushing 
before  them  some  highly  colored  creatures  of  the  half  world, 
women  of  whom  he  had  heard,  whom  the  world  accounted 
unclean,  their  high  pitched  voices  mingling  in  the  revelry. 

And  even-where  was  the  wine.  The  wine — juice  of  the 
sweet  wholesome  fruit  of  his  own  vineyard,  of  the  many  vine 
yards  lying  out  there  under  the  clean  white  moon  tonight! 
Even-where  the  wine:  dashed  with  skillful  hand  by  the  over 
worked  men  behind  the  screens,  into  the  slender  glasses;  in 
the  clinking  trays  swung  perilously  above  the  heads  of  the 
throng  on  the  hands  of  the  sweating  waiters  who  ran  and  slid 
and  dodged  through  the  confused  throng;  in  the  glasses  of 
the  women  held  in  unsteady  hands,  the  rich  dye  trickling 
down  the  white  bared  arm  and  into  the  low  bosoms;  wine  that 
inhibited  all  sense  of  right,  that  struck  out  all  sense  of  shame 
and  sent  men  and  women  circling  in  infamous  embrace  to  the 
unceasing  sound  of  the  ragtime  played  by  the  sweating  orches 
tra:  wine  into  which  some  devilish  hands  slipped  covertly  the 
lulling  potion  and  shortly  bore  a  fainting  girl  unresisting  through 
the  crowd  back  into  the  dim  passage  beyond.  Wine — even- 
where  the  wine,  piostituted  to  the  purposes  of  the  vilest! 

Duncan's  precautions,  the  absence  of  even  a  man  companion 
with  him  laid  him  open  to  annoyances  he  had  not  anticipated. 
It  was  obvious,  since  he  was  alone,  that  he  was  waiting  a  partner. 
Among  the  gaudy  sirens  whose  overtures  he  eluded  was  the 
girl  whom  he  had  met  at  Glad's  gate.  On  the  circumstance 
she  presumed  acquaintance  and,  to  Duncan's  increased  annoy 
ance  he  found  her  at  each  resort  he  visited.  He  was  handi 
capped  with  a  desirability  of  not  wishing  to  appear  the  novice 


THE    CLAW  203 

and  mere  on-looker  that  he  was  and  the  circumstances  neces 
sitated  a  seeming  acquiescence  to  her  overtures.  He  ordered 
her  wine. 

"If 'he  ain't  the  cheap  skate!"  the  girl  cried,  "Won't  be  so 
ciable  to  the  extent  of  a  measly  cocktail!" 

He  forced  himself  to  keep  up  his  end  of  the  repellant  con 
versation  till  she  tired  of  so  slow  a  companion  and  flung  herself 
away  after  livlier  company.  In  their  last  interview  she  had 
jollied  him  vulgarly  about  Glad,  and  asked  him  significantly 
of  her  whereabouts.  He  would  stand  for  no  compromising  of 
the  girl.  He  answered  her  curtly  and  turned  away.  Her  high 
mocking  laughter  followed  him,  a  repulsive  memory. 

Then  the  thing  was  true!  Blythe's  latest  enterprise  by  which 
he  encouraged  the  wholesome  practice  of  wine  consumption 
was  in  houses  that  unquestionably  entertained  the  underworld 
and  if  his  own  observations  had  needed  confirmation  they 
received  it  by  a  conversation  overheard  in  the  Journal  office 
on  an  afternoon  when  business  had  called  him  there.  The 
boys  were  enjoying  relaxation  while  the  big  press  turned  off 
the  evening  issue.  "The  Non  Pareil  and  the  Parisian— 
those  are  Blythe's  new  cafes?"  asked  Westsmith,  a  new  man. 

"Two  of  Blythe's  places,"  emphasized  Hayward.  "He's 
got  a  string  of  'em  up  and  down  the  state — his  latest 
inspiration.  Little  old  "Paree"  in  small,  cabaret  caricatures 
and  baby-doll  di\ertisement.  They're  some  cafes,  believe 
me! 

"Funny  about  Blythe,"  continued  Haywaid,  'he  has 
an  income  of,  I  suppose,  a  hundred  thousand  a  year  from 
his  wholesale  houses  and  as  much  in  dividends  on  his 
manufacturing  and  Association  shares,  but  he's  a  Yankee 
you  know,  and  he  can't  let  a  chance  to  turn  in  a  dollar 
get  by.  I  suppose  his  money  is  in  about  one-third  of  the 
retail  business  of  the  coast,  in  the  saloons  up  and--' down  this 


204  THE     CLAW 

valley  and  Southern  California  and  at  'Frisco,  and  he's 
always  thinking  up  new  investments,  like  his  string  of 
fancy  cafes.  Blythe  is  everywhere,  even  over  on  the 
desert  where  I  was  last  year  a  few  months  with  the  con 
struction  camp  of  the  S.  and  S.  development  company 
(Hay ward's  digression  from  the  profession  of  journalism  had 
been  occasioned  by  a  need  of  getting  away  from  the  booze, 
himself).  Camped  there  just  across  the  San  Berdo  county 
line,  (you  know  the  San  Berdo  desert  is  dry,  officially  so,) 
was  one  of  Blythe's  places  run  by  one  Mister  O'Hooligan 
and  a  genius  in  his  line.  Payday  saw  Mister  O'Hooligan 
expand  to  bu'sting  with  affability  and  cash  and  by  the 
time  the  paymaster  had  thrown  his  gripsack  on  the 
midnight  overland,  the  whole  gang  was  on  the  bum 
and  the  enterprise  of  the  S.  and  S.  languished  apace. 

"Blythe's  hand  has  been  behind  most  all  the  schemes  to 
buck  the  Wylie  Option  law  in  this  county  and  when  a  poor 
little  weazlefaced  blind-pigger  yclept  Parchesi  Spagetti  gets 
pinched,  the  wires  between  the  city  hall  and  one  William 
C.  Blythe  and  Company's  office  begin  to  sizzle;  the  bail  is 
forthcoming  and  it's  ten  to  one  that  the  county  keeps  the 
money  and  Spagetti  is  shortly  holding  another  job  in  a  spot 
remote  and  pacific. 

"Blythe  got  it  handed  to  him  straight,  if  the  people  only 
knew  it,  in  the  case  the  other  day  of  the  killing  of  the 
Hindoo  by  Gomez  out  on  La  Mesa  Vineyard.  Cliffe  took 
occasion  for  a  digression  in  his  argument  for  the  defense  in 
which  he  tore  into  the  Bernardini  Winery  that  Blythe  has 
a  big  interest  in,  called  the  place  down  proper  for  doing 
a  boot-legging  business.  Gomez  got  the  booze  from  Morton, 
the  foreman,  and  Morton  from  Bernardini.  The  district 
attoreney  may  take  the  matter  up  but  Blythe  '11  find  some 
way  to  get  his  man  off  all  right." 


THE    CLAW  205 

Duncan  left  the  office.  The  last  revelation  had  floored 
him.  And  this  was  Blythe,  sleek,  affable,  smiling, 
decrying  alike  the  debauchery  of  innocent  girls  and  the 
catastrophic  greed.  A  partnership  with  Blythe?  The  man 
had  lied  to  him,  and  worse  than  lied.  He  had  deceived 
him,  as,  no  doubt  he  was  deceiving  hundreds  of  other  men, 
his  friends,  like  Mr.  Cummings. 

It  was  no  hardship  for  Duncan  to  go  to  Blythe  now  and  tell 
him  the  whole  thing  was  off.  It  was  the  only  thing  to  be 
done,  under  the  circumstances,  yet  a  great  disappointment 
claimed  him.  What  luck,  wha,t  a  fate,  that  so  dazzling  a 
prospect  should  have  been  opened  to  him,  encouraged  all 
his  hopes  and  expectations,  and  then  be  dashed  away. 

And  what  of  Corinne?  Oh!  But  Corinne  had  not 
awaited  to  know  the  outcome  of  his  prospects  before  yielding 
him  her  generous  love.  He  was  rich,  rich,  and  there  were 
other  ways.  He  still  had  other  prospects,  the  Grape  Pro 
tective  Association  office,  the  legislature.  If  Blythe,  shrewd 
man,  h?,d  thought  his  ability  worth  such  an  offer  as  he 
had  made,  surely  there  would  be  others  to  recognize  it. 
His  happiness  would  be  delayed.  The  vineyard  was  in 
a  bad  way  financially  and  in  other  respects  and  it  would 
take  some  shrewd  shift  to  swing  things  in  the  next  year  or 
two,  but  with  the  goal  before  him,  Corinne  and  her  un 
selfish  love,  he  could  afford  to  work  and  wait. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

Duncan  sought  Blythe  in  his  office.  He  did  not  anticipate 
the  interview  as  an  easy  one,  but  he  intended  to  cut  it  as 
short  as  possible.  He  did  not  intend,  either,  to  deliver 
himself  of  any  comments  on  Blythe's  business  pclicy. 
Blythe  was  an  old  man  and  Duncan  had  no  mind  for 
accusations,  even  in  his  indignation  for  the  Bernardini  end 
of  Blythe's  responsibility.  But  his  own  sense  of  disgust  at 
having  been  made  a  "goat,"  to  some  extent,  gave  brevity 
and  crispness  to  his  remarks. 

"Good  afternoon,  Duncan,  my  boy,  come  in!"  Mr. 
Blythe's  tones  were  ingratiating.  "Sit  down,  won't  you? 
Take  that  chair  there  in  front  of  the  fan.  Damn  hot  day, 
I  call  it!"  He  mopped  the  sweat  from  his  own  brow 
vigorously.  Duncan  took  the  nearest  chair,  with  formality. 

"Don't  like  the  breeze,  eh?  Well,  it  does  give  some 
folks  the  snuffles  I  believe.  Rather  have  that  though, 
than  this.  Put  your  hat  over  on  that  stand  there  and  make 
yourself  comfortable.  Wait,  I've  got  a  decanter  in  my 
closet  here,  just  had  a  jug  of  1882  brought  in  from  the 
Riverbend  winery.  Let  me  give  you  some." 

"No,  thank  you,  Mr.  Blythe,"  said  Duncan  briefly,  Tve 
come  to  talk  business,  to  give  you  my  decision  about  that 
offer." 

"Well,  say,  that's  good."  Blythe  seated  himself  again 
and  wheeled  about  toward  the  boy  with  interest,  his  hands 
clasped  across  his  generous  pouch,  his  thumbs  whirling, 
expectancy  showing  in  his  face.  Duncan's  heart  nearly 
failed  him.  He  could  have  cursed  cricumstances  that 
discovered  this  man  in  inevitable  colors.  Still  he  had 
never  quite  liked  Blythe,  a  sudden  thinning  of  his  lips,  a 


THE    CLAW  207 

hardening  of  the  eyes,  that  turned  them,  on  occasion,  from 
genial  blue  to  the  gray  of  cold  steel  made  him  a-  man  to 
fear.  The  change  flashed  across  his  face  now  as  Duncan 
briefly  delivered  his  ultimatum. 

"Well,  what's  the  matter,  the  offer  not  to  your  taste, 
not  generous  enough,  not  enough  prospects  of  dividends?" 
He  smiled  but  his  voice  was  disagreeable. 

"No,  it's  not  that,  not  that  at  all,  Mr.  Blythe.  Nobody 
in  his  right  senses  could  ask  for  a  bigger  thing.  I've  told 
you  that  before  and  I  want  you  to  know  that  I  have 
enough  sense  to  realize  it.  There's  just  one  reason  why  I 
can't  take  it,  just  one  thing  and  I'm  going  to  tell  you 
straight." 

"All  right,"  interjected  Blythe.  He  had  squared  himself 
in  his  chair  as  though  anticipating  the  boy. 

"I  don't  like  the  character  of  your  business,  some  of  it,  a 
lot  of  it.  I've  been  looking  into  it." 

"Well  yes,  I  supposed  you  had,"  interrupted  Blythe,  "I 
reckoned  I'd  given  you  about  a  week  of  my  own  time 
that's  somewhat  valuable,"  he  spoke  with  sarcasm,  "to 
investigating  that  same  business  and  as  far  as  I  could  see 
you  were  pleased  enough  with  it,  mightily  pleased,  I  might 
say." 

"I  was,"  said  Duncan,  "with  what  you  showed  me.  Its 
the  part  you  didn't  show  me,  or  tell  me  of,  that  I'm  not 
pleased  with."  Blythe  made  an  ugly  grimace. 

"Mr.  Blythe,  I  don't  like  your  cafe  business,  a  business 
that  deliberately  caters  to  and  feeds  the  red-light.  I  don't 
like  the  class  of  saloons  you  provide  money  for.  I  don't 
like  the  part  you  had  indirectly,  it  may  be,  in  the  recent 
troubles  I've  had  on  my  vineyard  with  my  men.  Most  of 
all  I  don't  like  the  way  you've  deceived  me,  jollying  me 
along,  sympathizing  with  my  views  in  the  matter,  indignant 


208  THE    CLAW 

for  what  I've  met  and  my  men  have  met  at  the  hands  of 
Bernardini.  I  didn't  know  you  owned  a  dollar  of  stock  in 
the  Bernardini  winery.  Now  I've  learned  that  you  practically 
own  the  business,  and  rumor,  at  least,  has  it  that  you  knew 
what  was  going  on  between  Bernardini  and  Morton." 

Duncan  stopped.  Blythe  sat  silent  a  moment.  He  had 
sunk  into  his  chr.ir  till  one  shoulder  met  his  ear.  His  legs 
were  stretched  out  negligently  in  front  of  him.  One  hand 
flecked  the  ashes  from  his  cigar,  the  other  toyed  with  a 
desk  rule.  His  eyes  half  closed  following  the  movements  of 
his  fingers.  His  attitude  was  one  of  insolence  that  assumed 
defense. 

"That's  all  you  don't  like  about  my  busines,  young  man? 
All  the  criticism  you  have  to  make?"  Duncan  colored. 
Knowing  absolutely  that  he  was  in  the  right,  the  man,  his 
words  and  his  expression,  put  him  in  bad. 

"That's  all,  at  least  that's  the  reason  I  can't  take  up 
with  this  offer.  1  thank  you  for  it,  sincerely.  I  appreciate 
it.  I'm  more  sorry  than  I  can  say  to  have  taken  your 
valuable  time  to  no  purpose  to  yourself.  Good  afternoon." 

"Say  you,  come  back  here!"  Blythe's  words  stopped 
him.  He  was  on  his  feet,  his  insolence  gone,  a  scrutinizing 
whimsical  look  on  his  face.  "There's  no  use  in  being  in 
such  a  hurry.  If  I  am  such  a  bad  fellow  I  don't  contaminate. 
Sit  down  here,  I  want  to  talk  to  you."  Duncan  sat  down 
reluctantly. 

"You've  thrown  down  my  offer,  a  Jim-dandy  one,  too, 
I'll  repeat.  And  you've  come  here  and  intimated  that  I 
am  engaged  in  a  business  that  a  man  of  ideals,  we'll  say,  can't 
stand  for.  That  may  be  so,  but  let's  see  about  it.  I  don't 
pretend  to  be  a  highbrow  myself,  and  never  was,  and  I  take 
life  as  I  find  it.  This  is  the  way  I've  found  it,  namely, 
that  there  isn't  any  business  one  can  engage  in  and  make 


THE    CLAW  209 

a  living  that  hasn't  its  compromises.  The  worst 
element  will  be  served,  along  with  the  best,  by 
some  one,  some  where,  some  how,  and  the  least  one 
can  do  is  to  make  the  best  of  it.  If  business  throws 
a  man  with  that  sort  of  people,  and  in  the  way  of  serving 
that  sort  of  people,  why,  he  has  to  call  it  luck  and  pocket 
the  money  without  looking,  if  it  hurts  his  feelings  to 
scrutinize  it. 

"Now  of  course  you  thought  I  was  a  man  who  held 
different  ideas  and  did  a  different  business.  Yes,  I  kind  of 
made  you  think  so.  I'll  tell  you  how  it  was.  I  was 
perfectly  sincere  in  my  offer.  I  needed  you  in  my  business 
and  too,  I  had  a  sneaking  desire,  even  such  low  cusses  as 
we  kind  of  men  are,"  he  added  sarcastically,  "have  such 
impulses  sometimes,  I  had  the  impulse  to  help  you 
out  a  bit.  I  saw  where  your  father — with  all  honor  to 
his  memory — had  failed,  by  this  very  lack  of  business  common 
sense,  of  'taking  the  world  as  you  find  it  policy'  of  which 
I  speak,  and  I  thought  this  a  place  for  both  of  us  to  be 
served. 

"But  almost  straight  off  you  began  to  evince  highbrow 
and  kid  glove  tendencies;  I  saw  I  was  up  against  it.  Well, 
I  never  have  been  known  to  drop  a  hard  proposition  till  I 
was  dead  sure  it  was  beyond  me  to  swing  it.  Here,  said  I, 
is  a  young  man  straight  from  college,  a  member  of  the  Y.  M.  (1. 
A.,  the  Society  for  the  Uplift,  etc.;  a  young  man  with  a 
Purpose,  capital  p,  and  the  ambition  to  swing  the  world  one 
notch  nearer  the  millennium.  Now  he's  bound  to  come 
to  earth  with  a  big  jolt  sometime,  and  then  he'll  look  for  a 
bread  and  butter  job  and  say  like  the  rest  of  us  generally 
have  to,  'to  hell  with  the  uplift'. 

"I  conceived  it  my  pleasure  to  ease  that  jolt  a  bit  and  help 
make  as  easy  a  landing  as  possible  so  I  thought  to  nurse  him 


210  THE     CLAW 

along  easy,  to  remove  his  delusions  by  slow  and  painless 
process  and  at  last,  when  the  time  came,  let  him  see  the  seamy 
side  of  the  business  as  well  as  the  society  side,  as  it  were. 
If  he  had  the  grit  to  stay  with  it  after  that  he  was  worth  his 
salt;  I'd  be  glad  I  did  it, 

"But,"  continued  Blythe,  "he's  torn  away  the  veil  and  has 
looked  the  whole  bally  enterprise  in  the  teeth.  Well,  I  want 
to  say  now  I'm  not  ashamed  of  anything.  WThy,  do  you  suppose 
men  don't  know  about  my  business?  Do  you  suppose  my 
associates,  the  other  liquor  men,  aren't  engaged  in  exactly 
the  same  kind  of  business,  only  less  successfully?  I  might 
inquire  where  you  got  your  information  concerning  my  affairs. 
Probably  from  some  one  of  my  contemporaries  who  knew  he 
could  put  it  over  you  and  is  laughing  in  his  sleeve  while  he 
goes  about  similar  business." 

"You're  wrong!"  retorted  Duncan,  "I  asked  no  one.  I 
investigated,  myself,  as  I  had  a  right  to  do  and  took  no  one's 
word  for  it,  except  public  word — and  that  can  pretty  well  be 
depended  on.  If  I  hadn't  been  away  for  years  I  probably 
would  have  known  about  these  things,  if,  as  you  say,  such 
things  are  common.  But  I  am  mightily  deceived  if  they  are. 
I  have  labored  under  the  impression  that  the  majority  of 
men  in  our  class  run  a  straightforward  business  that  sells 
good  goods  to  reputable  patrons  and  discourages  excess  and 
the  associations  your  cafes  provide." 

"My  dear  boy!"  Blythe  had  risen  and  laid  his  hand  on 
Duncan's  shoulder,  with  the  old  assumption  of  friendliness. 
"A  mistakel  I'm  sorry  to  shatter  your  ideals,  to  remove 
your  delusions,  but  it  can't  be  helped.  The  liquor  business 
couldn't  exist  today  without  excess,  the  neavy  drinker  or  damn 
it,  the  baudy  bouses  and  their  patronage. 

"But  that's  no  argument  for  doing  away  with  it,  for 
good  men  and  women  who  drink  moderately  being  deprived 


THE    CLAW  211 

of  that  privilege;  for  men  who  make  their  business  by  making 
liquor  or  raising  the  grapes  that  make  the  wine,  going  out  of 
business.  It's  no  reason  either  why  they  shouldn't  cater 
to  that  perticular  kind  of  trade.  Its  all  right  to  talk  regulation, 
restriction,  etc.,  all  right,  when  you're  doing  politics.  But 
there's  just  one  solution  to  the  hard  facts  of  life,  to  the  evil 
and  suffering  that  exist."  Duncan  looked  up  surprised  at 
Blythe  in  the  role  of  the  philosopher.  "That  solution  is 
that  good  men  live  by  it,  by  the  intended  evil  of  the  world. 

"Men  will  war  and  you  and  I,  or  some  other  fellow,  lives 
off  the  money  from  their  arms  and  their  supplies.  Men  and 
women  will  get  sick  and  they'll  die  and  the  doctors  and  the 
undertakers  earn  their  bread  thereby.  Men  and  women 
will  drink  and  carouse,  they  will  buy  the  booze  to  do  it  with 
and  you  and  I  might  as  well  be  the  recipients  of  the  little 
good  that  comes  out  of  it — the  money  from  that  booze.  Now 
ain't  that  sense?  Come,  buck  up!  You're  a  young  fellow 
and  it  comes  hard  at  first  but  I'm  giving  it  straight.  I'm 
giving  you,  damn  it,  the  biggest  proposition  a  young  fellow 
of  brains  and  ambition  and  a  girl  waiting  for  him  somewhere," 
he  nudged  Duncan  facetiously,  "ever  had  proposed  to  him. 
What  do  you  say?  Better  reconsider  it." 

"Thank   you,    no\"    said    Duncan. 

Blythe  spread  his  hands;  "Oh,  well,  that's  all  right.  Sorry 
we  couldn't  put  it  through,  but  no  harm  done  to  anybody, 
I  guess."  Duncan  rose  to  go,  but  he  detained  him. 

"By  the  way,  what  do  you  have  in  mind  about  your  place, 
if  its  any  of  my  business.  I  suppose  you  will  be  able  to  arrange 
your  finances  without  embarrassment."  Duncan  turned  with 
chagrin.  In  his  anxiety  in  one  matter  he  had  been  guilty  of 
an  awkward  omission.  He  was  still  under  obligations  to 
the  man  whose  project  he  had  rejected,  and  with  criticism. 

"I   beg  your   pardon,"   he   said   quickly.      "I   should   have 


212  THE    CLAW 

spoken  of  that,  I  meant  to.  Of  course  I  shall  relieve  you 
of  the  renewal  of  that  mortgage.  You  have  been  more  than 
kind  to  carry  it  so  long  and  I  know  it  means  no  special  ad 
vantage  to  you.  I'll  borrow  money  and  pay  you  this  week. 
I'm  sure  I  can  get  the  amount." 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,  that's  all  right!"  interposed  Blythe. 
"I  didn't  mean  my  part  of  it.  We'll  let  that  stand  just  as 
it  is.  But  the  others;  of  course,  now  this  is  off  I  couldn't  carry 
out  that  offer  concerning  the  notes.  By  the  way  who  did  you 
say  held  them?  I  believe  you  told  me  once." 

"Whitten,  Jones  and  Powell.  I  think  there'll  be  no  trouble 
about  getting  them  renewed,  and  as  I  said  before  I  appreciate 
the  kindness  and  extent  of  your  proposition  and  I  certainly 
appreciate  your  renewed  generosity.  I  will  accept  it  only 
because  to  do  otherwise  would  cause  me  a  good  deal  of  in 
convenience  just  now  and  I'll  try  and  relieve  you  as  soon 
as  possible." 

"Don't  mention  it,  don't  mention  it,"  interposed  Blythe. 
He  had  risen  from  his  chair  and  was  walking  to  the  door  with 
Duncan,  his  former  engaging  manner  resumed. 

"And  you,  what  do  you  intend  to  do,  with  your  time  and 
the  energies  you  refuse  to  lend  me?"  he  smiled  affably  on  the 
boy. 

"I  still  hold  the  Grape  Association's  offer  tentatively,  you 
know,  and  some  other  propositions,"  he  thought  it  would 
not  be  good  taste  to  refer  to  the  assembly  candidacy. 

"That's  good,  that's  good!  Then  you're  all  right  £.nd 
well-heeled.  Well,  goodbye,  come  in  again,  any  time  you 
feel  like  it,  and  good  luck  to  you!"  He  ushered  Duncan  out 
with  an  ostentation  almost  paternal. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

From  the  hospital  Glad  went  to  Marlinee's.  The  latter 
shared  a  modest  appartment  on  a  quiet  street  with  a  friend, 
another  business  woman.  Both  were  away  during  the  day, 
and  Glad  found  the  quiet  and  retirement  of  the  cozy  house 
most  grateful.  She  still  shrank  painfully  from  going  out 
or  meeting  her  former  friends  and  associates.  In  the  new 
knowledge  lent  her  by  her  unhappy  experiences  she  realized 
the  character  of  some  of  the  young  girls  who  had  been  her 
companions.  What  she  in  her  innocence  had  entered  into  as 
girlish  larks  were  to  these  poor  young  creatures  loose  episodes, 
first  lessons  in  the  education  leading  to  deliberate  and 
professional  immorality. 

Into  the  gulf  of  awful  possibilities  escaped,  Glad  looked  with 
eyes  that  lent  a  terrible  seeing.  She  had  been  on  the  verge;  was 
indeed  on  the  verge;  and  a  horrible  obsession,  induced  by  the 
urgings  of  her  loose  girl  friends,  clung  to  her  for  weeks  and 
unceasingly  suggested  this  as  her  natural  end.  It  was  this 
horror  which  still  dwelt  in  her  frightened  eyes;  this  suggestion 
that  in  the  midst  of  the  merriest  of  intercourse  with  her  friends 
suddenly  invoked  a  melancholy  reverie  to  them  unaccountable. 
It  was  this  that  made  her  physical  and  mental  recovery  so 
slow.  She  never  left  the  house  except  of  evenings  when  in 
the  protection  of  the  twilight,  she  walked  out  with  Marlinee 
for  the  air.  N orris,  bold  in  his  defiance  of  society  and  all 
Glad's  foes  would  gladly  have  taken  the  girl  abroad  at  his 
side  in  daylight,  and  urged  evenings  of  diversion,  the  picture 
show  or  the  recreation  parks  but  the  girl  steadfastly  refused 
his  attentions. 

The  problem  of  Glad's  life  was  indeed,  at  this  period,  a 
most  puzzling  one  to  the  three  who  had  assumed  it.  She  was 


214  THE     CLAW 

as  alone  in  the  world  as  Mailinee,  save  for  her  brother.  A 
tiny  income  from  her  father's  estate  lent  barely  enough  to 
feed  and  clothe  her.  She  seemed  incapable  of  realizing  or 
providing  for  her  future.  Marlinee  had  decided  upon 
one  thing,  to  keep  the  girl  with  her  till  her  mental  poise  was 
fully  recovered.  Her  affections  had  become  much  bound 
up  in  Glad.  Their  similar  circumstances  of  loneliness  appealed 
to  her  and  her  woman's  instincts  were  involved  in  the  care 
and  solicitude  for  the  charming  child-woman.  Barring 
the  spectre  of  Glad's  tragedy  it  was  a  happy  household  and 
when  the  two  men  joined  them,  as  they  frequently  did,  there 
was  much  innocent  and  wholesome  merriment. 

Marlinee  was  perfectly  aware  of  Duncan's  heart  affair,  but 
she  appreciated  with  some  humor  that,  at  the  height  of  his 
infatuation  he  found  a  surprising  amount  of  pleasure  and 
satisfaction  in  the  little  group  of  friends,  organized  on  such 
an  unusual  and  tragic  basis.  For  as  practical  and  one-ideaed 
an  individual  as  he  was  Duncan  was  guilty  of  most  diverting 
and  wholly  unconscious  inconsistencies.  The  girl  had  always 
detected  these.  They  were  more  marked  than  ever,  and 
contributed  strengthening  versatility  and  attractiveness  to 
his  character.  The  little  coterie  of  friends  called  themselves 
humorously,  "The  Family  of  the  Five." 

Glad  was  sitting  one  morning  on  the  sheltered  side  piazza, 
some  three  weeks  after  making  her  home  with  Marlinee.  She 
was  alone,  as  usual  at  that  hour.  Unusually  lighthearted 
today,  she  was  humming  some  popular  song  as  she  plied  her 
needle  at  a  dainty  bit  of  fancy  work.  She  was  a  charming 
picture  in  her  light  morning  frock,  her  soft  hair  tucked  up 
under  a  morning  cap,  her  sleeves  back  from  her  round  arms. 
Her  cheeks  were  pink  with  returning  health,  and  the  morning's 
exercises,  provided  by  the  light  housekeeping  in  which  she 
shared. 


THE    CLAW  215 

She  heard  steps  on  the  walk.  It  was  the  grocer  boy,  no 
doubt,  with  the  morning  order.  He  would  go  around  to  the 
kitchen.  She  did  not  look  up  till  someone  stepped  on  the  porch. 
Then  she  sprang  to  her  feet,  her  eyes  dilating  with  horror. 
It  was  a  man,  the  man  she  had  known.  He  laughed  lightly 
and  took  off  his  hat. 

"Well,  hello!  You  seem  frightened."  She  was  backing 
slowly  toward  the  door,  her  hand  to  her  heart,  her  eyes  held 
in  a  sort  of  trance. 

"Sit  down",  he  said,  c'urtly.  She  moved  on  groping  for 
the  open  door. 

"Sit  down!"  he  repeated,  "Come  back  and  sit  down,  I  say." 

His  manner  was  impelling.  Slowly,  as  if  under  a  hypnotic 
spell  she  returned.  He  pushed  the  chair  toward  her  and  she 
sat  down.  He  took  one  near. 

"Now  then,  that's  sensible"  he  said.  "Well  now,  how  about 
it?  I  guess  now  you're  ready  to  go  with  me." 

"To  go  with  you!"  She  started  from  her  seat  but  he  laid 
hold  of  her  wrist. 

"Oh,  just  don't  get  excited,  I  don't  want  any  fuss  here.  I 
expect  you've  got  neighbors  close  by  and  it  might  be  awkward 
for  both  of  us.  You're  alone  here,  just  now,  I  know  that,  and 
will  be  for  some  time,  so  we  can  have  a  quiet  little  chat  here, 
in  this  cozy  corner,  like  we  used  to  before.  Remember?"  He 
brought  his  face  close  to  hers,  with  a  hateful  grimace.  She 
could  have  struck  him  and  the  fierce  hate  burned  her 
throat  but  something  kept  her  docile,  dead. 

"Say,  you've  improved — your  looking  fine,  do  you  know  it? 
You're  plumper,  got  more  color!"  he  was  eyeing  her,  appraising 
her  hideously.  He  drew  a  finger  across  her  limp  and  relaxed 
arm.  She  wrenched  herself  away  from  him. 

"Let   me   be,    I   hate   you!"     He   laughed,   softly. 

"Well,  that  complimentary  after  the  nice  things  you  used 


216  THE    CLAW 

to  say  to  me,  but  never  mind.  You're  a  pretty  little  devil. 
I  like  to  see  you  mad."  She  was  panting,  straining  from 
him. 

"What  do  you  want?"  she  cried.  "Say  what  you  want 
and  go!" 

"All  right,  it's  just  this."  His  intimacy,  his  banter,  was 
dropped  like  a  garment  and  more  ominous  attitude  assumed. 
He  jerked  himself  to  a  sitting  posture  with  a  covert  look  through 
the  vines,  then  bent  toward  her,  a  hand  pressed  on  her  shrinking 
knee. 

"Its  just  this,"  he  said,  "and  you  know  it  well  enough. 
It's  time  you  was  coming  across  to  the  redlights.  The  girls 
told  you  that  in  the  beginning.  It's  where  you  belong."  A 
deathly  shudder  went  through  the  girl  and  her  head  went  back 
in  faintness. 

"Now  don't  act  a  fool,  we  havn't  time.  Of  course  I  might 
take  you  right  along  with  me  now  but  there's  some  risk.  What 
I  want  is  for  you  to  come  along  quiet,  the  way 
you  ought  to  do.  What  do  you  want  to  stay  here  for  on 
charity?" 

"No,  not  that,"  she  gasped. 

"Oh,  yes,  it  is.  Suppose  they  enjoy  taking  care  of  you, 
those  high-browed  goody-goodies?  Or  maybe,  say!  What 
kind  of  a  joint  is  this?  I've  seen  men  coming  here,  you  little 
devil!  If  you've  played  me —  She  had  wrenched  herself 
from  him,  striking  out  at  him  with  all  her  puny  strength. 

"You  brute!"  she  cried.  "You  say  that  of  them,  of  my 
friends.  Oh,  I  could  kill  you!  They  are  my  friends,  the 
best  ever  made." 

"Oh  sit  down,  sit  down!  Don't  lets  have  any  dramatics 
here,"  he  pulled  her  violently  down  into  the  chair  again.  "So 
you  would  hurt  me,  would  you?  Well,  that's  all  right  as 
long  as  it  isn't  the  other.  If  it  had  been,"  his  voice  held  a 


THE    CLAW  217 

threat  that  changed  to  complaceny  as  he  noted  her  changed 
and  cowed  attitude. 

"Well  now,  you  know  what  you  ought  to  do.  You  don't 
want  to  be  a  charge  to  these  noble  friends  of  yours.  It  ain't 
just  nature  for  society  people  to  look  after  a  chit  like  you 
and  they'll  get  tired  of  it  after  awhile.  You've  got  nobody 
to  go  to,  and  there  just  ain't  any  way  for  it."  The  girl  moaned 
faintly.  To  her  crushed  and  horrified  mind,  already  obsessed 
by  the  suggestion,  the  argument  seemed  logical,  absolute. 

"All  right  now,  we  understand  each  other,  and  there's  to 
be  no  cold  feet,  remember.  There  don't  need  to  be  any  ex 
planation.  I  wouldn't  suggest  that  you  hold  a  farewell 
reception  when  you  make  known  your  intentions,"  his  humor 
was  horrible  to  the  shuddering  girl.  "You're  alone  all  day. 
Just  pack  up  your  things  some  day,  we'll  make  it  tomorrow, 
and  hike.  Call  me  up  before  you  leave.  Here,"  he  gave  her  a 
card  with  a  number  on  it,  "and  I'll  tell  you  where  to  send 
your  things  and  where  I'll  meet  you.  You  can  leave  a  little 
note  saying  you've  decided  not  to  be  a  burden  any  longer, 
etc.  You  can  think  up  the  frills,  you're  long  on  dramatic  effect. 
But  just  don't  mention  your  address,  that's  all!" 

"Oh   my   God!   My   God!"    the   girl   moaned. 

"Now  that's  all,  only",  he  bent  over  her  his  lips  close  to 
her  ear,  "hurry  up,  get  busyl  And  in  case  you  might  be  in 
clined  to  change  your  mind,  I'll  just  suggest  that  I've  the 
address  of  that  fine  high-brow  brother  of  yours  in  my  pocket, 
and  I'll  be  glad  to  let  him  know  what  sort  his  little  Sis  has 
become  nowdays." 

She  gave  a  start  and  her  eyes  flew  open  in  fixed  horror, 
then  a  great  faintness  swept  her,  her  head  went  back,  her 
arms  fell  feebly  at  her  side.  Her  eyes  closed.  He  stood 
over  her  a  moment.  His  eyes  were  eager,  like  eyes  of  a  beast 
with  its  prey  beneath  his  claw.  He  stooped  toward  her. 


218  THE    CLAW 

"Why  not  now?  Hell!  Why  didn't  I  have  a  cabby  waiting? 
But  I  wasn't  sure  of  the  kid.  He  stops  here  mornings  sometimes. 
Shame  to  miss  a  chance  though."  He  gave  a  quick  look  around 
and  strode  toward  the  door.  The  telephone  was  just  inside 
on  the  wall.  Then  he  turned  back. 

"No,  I  ain't  quite  game,"  he  whispered.  "They'd  have 
too  dead  sure  a  thing  on  me  if  they  should  catch  me." 

He  gazed  at  the  girl,  reluctantly,  as  he  tiptoed  past  her. 
She  was  quite  still,  lying  in  a  dead  faint,  like  death.  He 
reached  for  his  hat  (what  gentleman's  instinct  within  his 
degraded  breast  had  prompted  his  removal  of  it  when  he 
approached!)  and  slipped  covertly  down  the  steps.  He 
walked  away  with  the  brisk  air  of  a  solicitor  or  the  reader  of 
gas  meters.  Marlinee,  returning  to  the  house  for  a  forgotten 
and  unmailed  letter  found  the  child  not  five  minutes  later. 

Glad's  first  hysterical  ejaculations  in  her  rousing  moments 
suggested  the  cause  of  her  prostrated  condition  but  her 
distraught  mind  as  soon  as  full  consciousness  returned,  resisted 
even  in  her  physical  weakness,  the  attempts  of  her  friend  to 
draw  from  her  the  story  of  the  morning's  episode.  She  was 
hypnotized  with  a  frightful  necessity  to  keep  the  matter  a 
secret  and  to  fulfill  the  horrible  contract.  But  Marlinee 
with  the  assistance  of  Duncan  for  whom  she  telephoned  at 
once  to  the  Grape  Protective  Association,  at  last  succeeded 
in  gaining  the  details  from  her  reluctant  lips. 

"Oh,  I  shouldn't  have  told  you!"  she  cried  hysterically. 
"I  shouldn't  have  told  you!  I  should  have  gotten  ready  and 
gone.  He  was  right.  It's  where  I  belong.  I've  known 
it  all  along,  that  I  would  go  at  last!" 

"Hush!"  cried  Marlinee,  "you  mustn't  talk  that  way,  dear 
child.  You  don't  know  what  you're  saying." 

"Oh,  no,  no!"  the  girl  moaned,  "I've  no  business  here  with 
you  who  are  good.  It's  no  use,  just  as  he  said." 


THE    CLAW  219 

"Honey  dear,  you're  sick.  You're  beside  yourself.  You 
are  hysterical  from  this  awful  experience.  When  you  are 
better,  you'll  feel  differently.  I'm  going  to  give  you  this, 
it  will  quiet  you  and  perhaps  you'll  sleep,  and  when  you  wake 
you'll  be  able  to  see  things  clearer.  Don't  be  afraid,  I  shan't 
leave  you.  We  will  never  leave  you  alone  again."  Marlinee 
gave  the  girl  a  powder  prescribed  at  the  hospital  for  her  hours 
of  hysteria,  and  the  child  presently  sank  into  sleep.  She 
arranged  over  the  telephone  with  one  of  the  office  girls  to 
take  care  of  her  unfinished  work,  and  remained  with  Glad 
the  rest  of  the  day. 

With  the  girl's  story  learned,  Duncan  sought  Norris.  His 
first  impulse  had  been  to  call  up  the  chief  of  police  and  give 
him  a  description  of  the  man,  but  if  found  arid  arrested,  the 
girl  would  have  to  identify  him  and  thus  be  brought  into 
publicity.  They  must  secure  her  safety  against  the  man's 
designs  in  some  other  way.  In  the  telephone  booth  of  the 
Star  office  he  told  Norris  the  story.  The  latter,  white  with 
rage,  bit  his  lip  in  his  perplexity.  He  itched  to  get  his  hands 
on  the  man's  throat,  but  any  move  towards  his  discovery 
would,  as  Duncan  suggested,  involve  Glad. 

"No,"  he  agreed  at  last,  with  reluctance,  "I  guess  we  can't 
do  anything  about  it.  Can't  give  it  to  the  police,  anyway. 
But  leave  it  to  me!  I'll  find  the  man  yet  and  punish  him 
with  my  own  hands.  I'll  find  him,  damn  him,  if  I  have  to 
hunt  him  down  to  the  mouth  of  the  pit." 

He  struck  his  hand  on  the  desk  suddenly.  "I've  got  it, 
I  believe.  By  Heck,  I've  got  it!  They're  looking  for  a  man 
right  now,  a  white  slavery  case.  The  federal  officers  are 
in  town  today.  This  may  be  him.  He  was  here,  the  man 
they  want,  three  or  four  months  ago;  they  know  that.  And 
then  got  out  of  town  suddenly.  They've  heard  he's  back. 
By  Gad!  This  may  be  him.  That's  why  he  hasn't  showed 


220  THE    CLAW 

up  before.  They  were  on  his  trail.  That's  why  he  didn't 
take  her  with  him  that  night  after  he  drugged  her.  Something 
scared  him.  He  got  on.  Wait!  What  night  was  that? 
You  know,  she  told  you. 

"The  eighteenth  of  April?"  He  was  flipping  the  notes  of 
his  date-book  feverishly.  "The  eighteenth!  Let  see,  I've 
got  it  here,  somewhere,  the  night  of  the  raid  on  Emma  White's 
house  over  in  the  tenderloin  when  they  thought  they  had 
him.  Here,  here  it  is,  the  eighteenth!"  he  shourted.  "Say 
that's  it,  that's  him!  Do  you  see?  That's  how  he  came  to 
drop  her  after  he'd  done  his  devil's  work  that  night  at  the 
cafe.  Some  one  put  him  wise,  and  he  skipped  in  the  early 
morning,  threw  her  out  in  the  street,  anywhere  to  get  rid 
of  her  and  get  away.  Oh,  damn  him!  Damn  him!  Damn 
him! 

"And  now  he  comes  back  to  finish  his  work.  Well,  we'll 
get  him!  We've  got  to  get  him.  I'll  put  the  officers  on 
this  minute."  He  snatched  the  receiver." 

"But    Glad,"    suggested    Duncan. 

"Oh    Heck!"    cried    Norris.     His    collapse    was    humorous. 

"Well,"  he  was  at  it  again,  his  news  instinct  abbetting 
his  zeal  for  Glad  and  his  craving  for  revenge.  "I'll  guard 
Glad  all  right,  but  I'll  get  him  yet.  Tell  you  what!  I'll 
go  to  the  federal  officers.  I'll  have  an  excuse.  You  see  I 
had  the  dope  on  this  white  slave  story  in  April,  when  they 
were  working  on  the  case.  Wilkins  of  the  force  tipped  it  off 
to  me,  and  I'd  turned  the  story  into  the  desk  when  they  got  on 
that  we  had  it,  and  called  up  and  called  off  the  boss.  Said 
it'd  spoil  their  case  you  know.  Well,  I'll  tell  them  I've  got 
something  to  give  them  on  the  case.  I'll  say  that  we  heard 
here  in  a  new  way  about  the  overtures  of  a  man  to  a  young 
woman  today,  good  family,  people  not  willing  to  have  girl's 


THE    CLAW  221 

name  used,  but  gave  description,  and  I  sized  it  up  as  the  man 
they're  after.  See?  No  danger  at  all  to  Glad. 

"Oh  say,  that's  great,  it's  him  all  right!  Why,  you  know 
there  isn't  any  reason  why  he  wouldn't  have  taken  the  little 
girl  off  this  morning,  especially  after  she  fainted.  He  knew 
she  was  alone,  watched  and  knew.  The  thing  is  done  every 
day  somewhere.  But  he  was  scairy,  you  see?  Maybe  he's 
got  a  tip  already  that  the  officers  are  about.  There  isn't  a 
minute  to  lose.  I'll  tell  McWhirter  I've  got  a  line  on 
a  story,  and  I'll  go  up  there  right  now.  Trust  me,"  he  called 
back  at  sight  of  Duncan's  anxious  face,  "I  won't  give  the 
little  girl  away." 

In  the  days  following,  when  Glad  was  being  nursed  and 
coaxed  and  petted  back  to  a  semblance  of  her  former  self, 
it  was  Norris  who  proved  the  rescuer;  Norris  who  swept  away 
the  long  nightmare  of  Glad's  obsession  and  her  courageous 
resistance  to  that  unacknowledged  and  reclaiming  emotion 
she  had  realized  since  their  renewed  acquaintance. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

With  the  new  threat  to  Glad's  welfare  and  peace  of  mind 
it  was  found  necessary  to  remove  her  to  a  place  where  she 
could  have  constant  attendance.  Marlinee  conceived  the 
idea  of  taking  the  girl  to  her  ranch  home.  Mammy  was 
there,  faithful  Mammy,  boarding  the  help  and  taking  care 
of  the  chickens  and  turkeys.  Mammy  would  be  only  too 
happy  for  Glad  to  do  for  and  spoil. 

Marlinee  would  spend  every  week-end,  as  usual  at  the 
"Wickiup",  her  ranch  bungalow.  Duncan  and  Norris  would 
see  them  occasionally,  and  Mammy's  strong  arm  and  informed 
care  would  keep  harm  away  from  the  little  girl  while  she 
tried  again  to  take  hold  on  normal  life  from  which  a  frightful 
fate  seemed  designed  to  snatch  her. 

The  arrangement  could  not  be  put  into  effect,  however,  till 
the  end  of  the  week  when  Marlinee  would  be  free  to  go  to 
the  country  with  Glad.  In  the  meantime  the  services  of  a 
nurse  were  secured.  Glad's  nervous  condition  and  the  absence 
of  the  girls  from  the  house  demanding  that  she  have  attendance. 

Two  mornings  after  the  catastrophe  that  induced  Glad's 
relapse,  Duncan,  in  the  office  of  the  Protective  Association, 
was  handed  a  note  by  a  messenger  boy.  There  were  no  charges. 
He  signed  for  it  and  wheeling  about  in  his  chair  to  his  desk 
opened  and  read.  The  boy  waited. 

"Mr.  Cameron: — Let  me  see  you  tonight  without  fail  at 
the  Non  Pareil  at  2:30.  I  got  something  mighty  important 
to  tell  you  that  has  to  do  with  that  little  friend  of  yours.  You'll 
be  sorry  if  you  don't  come,  kid.  Honest  to  God,  this  is  straight. 
Give  the  head  waiter  your  card. 

"Molly." 


THE    CLAW  223 

Duncan  frowned  and  said  something;  under  his  breath.  He 
looked  up  and  saw  the  waiting  boy. 

"An    answer?"     he    said. 

"Yes,  she  said  to  wait." 

He  read  the  note  again.  His  first  impulse  had  been  to  tear 
it  up  and  throw  it  in  the  waste  basket.  It  was  an  obvious 
effort  of  the  woman  to  abet  the  overtures  he  had  repulsed  at 
Blythe's^cafes,  but  the  suggestion  concerning  Glad  caught  in 
his  mind.  Import  was  added  by  her  recent  experience. 

It  was  repulsive  to  him,  the  thought  of  acceding  a  meeting 
with  this  woman  in  such  a  place.  If  she  had  real  news  to  impart, 
why  did  she  not  appoint  another  and  different  rendezvous. 
But  his  reason  told  him  there  was  no  more  respectable  place 
where  such  a  woman  could  meet  him.  If  it  were  a  mere  excuse 
for  the  sake  of  an  appointment  he  would  discover  the  fact  at 
once  and  could  leave  her.  Besides  he  had  been  to  the  Non 
Pareil  before,  risking  to  some  extent  his  reputation  by  being 
seen  there,  if  indeed  he  could  risk  anything  in  a  company  that 
compromised  all  who  were  found  in  it.  He  would  go.  He 
reached  for  a  pen,  hesitated,  then  wrote  »one  word  without 
signature : 

"Coming." 

He  folded  the  note  and  sealed  it  in  an  envelope,  unaddressed. 
"Here,"  he  said  to  the  boy  and  gave  him  a  quarter.  The 
latter  went  off  whistling.  Such  transactions  were  a  large  part 
of  his  daily  business. 

Duncan  was  at  the  cafe  at  the  hour  appointed.  He  gave 
his  card  to  the  head  waiter.  It  was  a  part  of  the  arrangement 
that  was  most  distasteful  to  him.  A  man  may  part  with 
anything,  in  a  risk  for  a  large  stake,  but  his  name. 

The  waiter  led  Duncan  between  the  rows  of  tables  where 
respectability  dines  and  takes  its  leave  at  twelve,  and  indecency 
takes  the  tables  on  the  stroke  and  wines  till  morning.  He  led 


224  THE    CLAW 

Duncan  down  the  room,  where  the  same  garish  scene  was 
being  enacted  as  on  the  night  of  his  previous  visit,  apparently 
by  the  same  people,  the  painted,  bedecked,  blatant  women 
with  their  wine  spattered  gowns;  the  blear  eyed  men  staring 
vapidly  at  their  coquetries,  or  by  a  new  provocation  of  wine 
and  passion  seizing  their  partners  violently  about  the  waist 
and  whirling  away,  caught  up  in  the  mad  vortex. 

He  was  led  past  the  curtained  boxes  where  glimpses  of 
bestial  revelry  were  caught  at  its  height  through  the  partings 
or  where  men  and  women,  beyond  reviving  for  the  night 
were  dragged  by  their  partners  and  discarded  while  they 
sought  other  companions  whose  sense  and  zest  was  not  yet 
exhausted.  Here  in  the  semi-privacy  of  one  of  these  boxes 
was  where  Duncan  had  expected  to  meet  the  woman,  but 
to  his  discomforture  the  man  led  him  on,  through  the  rear 
door  and  up  the  staircase  he  had  observed  before. 

At  the  threshold  Duncan  drew  back  and  was  about  to  throw 
up  the  enterprise.  It  was  a  capital  situation  to  find  himself 
in.  He  cursed  his  quixotic  impulses.  Yet  it  was  not  an 
impulse.  All  day,  }ust  as  he  was  about  to  annul  the  engagement 
his  thought  caught  again  on  the  issue,  Glad.  There  might  be 
real  danger  waiting  her  in  spite  of  their  precautions.  The 
woman  had  shown  in  her  interviews  with  him  before  a  gleam 
of  regard  for  the  girl.  Was  it  not  possible  that  she  had 
o'verheard  some  fiendish  plot  designed  to  snatch  the  child 
yet,  from  her  friends?  There  was  no  way  for  it,  he  must  go. 
He  followed  the  man  down  the  crimson  twilight  of  the  passage 
way  till  he  stopped  at  a  door  and  knocked.  The  woman 
opened  it. 

"Hello!     Come  in." 

Duncan  stopped  in  the  doorway.  "What  did  you  want?" 
he  asked.  She  laughed  derisively. 

"Well,    we    can't    talk    out    here.     Come    in.     You're    not 


THE     CLAW  225 

ufraid  of  nothin'  arc  you?"  He  stepped  inside  and  the  door 
closed  behind  him.  It  had  a  spring  lock. 

"Well,  how  are  you,  kid?  Sit  down  and  make  yourself  at 
home.  I  like  to  see  folks  comfortable.  What'll  you  have?" 
The  table  was  well  stocked  with  wine.  She  made  a  motion 
to  pour  him  a  glass  but  he  waved  it  aside  sternly.  He  was 
still  standing.  "What  do  you  want?  Why  did  you  bring 
me  here,  in  here?  I  expected  to  meet  you  out  there  where 
I  saw  you  the  other  night."  She  laughed,  a  trailing  amused 
laugh. 

"WTell,  you  didn't  see  any  place  out  there  just  exactly  suited 
to  telling  secrets,  did  you?  Not  what  you  might  call  a  cozy 
corner  for  just  you  and  me?  Say,  you're  nervous,  boy!  And 
yet,"  she  came  suddenly  from  behind  the  table  leaning  one 
ringed  hand  on  the  stand,  the  other  laid  heavily  on  his  shoulder, 
her  rouged  face  in  its  jewelled  harness  pushed  close  to  his. 

"Say,  drop  it,  kid!  Cut  it  out.  Take  it  from  me  1  know 
your  game!  Playing  the  innocent,  aren't  you?  One  of  your 
high-brow,  goody-goody  kind,  just  home  from  college,  good 
as  he  went!  Never  been  in  a  place  like  this  before.  Don't 
know  anything  about  it! 

"Yet  you've  been  here  all  right,  only  you  hadn't  any  time 
for  Molly  McFee.  Molly  McFee  wasn't  good  enough  for 
you.  Or  else  you  were  a  cheap  guy,  that's  it.  Didn't  even 
want  to  order  the  drinks.  I  did  it  tonight,  you  see.  Knew 
I'd  have  to,"  she  laughed  scornfully.  He  had  shaken  her 
hand  from  off  him  and  drawn  back  a  step  as  she  talked.  He 
was  perfectly  aware  of  the  meaning  of  the  situation.  Why 
had  he  not  thought  of  it  before,  her  persistence,  her  continued 
reference  to  Glad  in  their  evening  meetings,  her  displeasure 
at  his  refusals  to  her  solicitations?  He  was  facing  that  most 
dangerous  of  creatures,  a  jealous  and  vicious  woman.  As  he 
eyed  her  apparently  in  absolute  self  command,  he  was  thinking 


226  THE     CLAW 

fast.  He  noted  the  lock  on  the  door  through  which  he  had 
come.  There  were  other  doors,  but  they  too  were  no  doubt 
locked. 

He  relaxed  suddenly  and  turning  to  a  chair  seated  himself. 
"Yes,"  he  said,  "all  right,  but  you  had  something  you  wanted 
to  tell  me."  He  bent  forward,  smiling  easily,  turning  his 
hat  nonchantly  in  his  hand.  She  eyed  him  with  curiosity, 
surprise. 

"What?"  she  said  unguardedly. 

"You  said  in  your  note  that  you  had  something  to  tell 
me  about  my  friend,"  he  spoke  carefully,  ''the  friend  we  talked 
about  before.  You  brought  me  here  with  the  idea  you  had 
something  of  importance  to  say  about  her.  That  was  why 
I  came,  the  only  reason!" 

An  ugly  look  passed  over  her  face.  She  poured  out  a  glass 
for  herself  and  drank  it  off  quickly.  As  she  put  it  down  she 
looked  at  him.  Her  eyes  grew  to  narrow  slits.  "Yes,  your 
friend,  always  your  friendl"  she  underlined  the  word.  "That's 
just  what  I  want  to  talk  about."  She  threw  back  her  head 
and  her  face  flamed  to  the  forehead  under  the  white  paste. 

"Your  friend,  that's  just  what  she  is,  and  I  knew  it  all 
right!  You  tried  to  fool  me.  You  would  have  nothing  of 
me,  because  you're  a  hypocrite,  a  cheap  skate  too!  It  might 
be  found  out.  It  would  cost  you  too  much!  But  this  girl, 
this  little  girl,  that  you  pretend  to  befriend,  that  you  take 
to  your  house,  the  house  of  another  friend,  by  the  way;  that's 
two,  you  know!" 

Duncan  sprang  from  his  chair.  "You  lie!"  he  cried.  He 
would  have  taken  her  by  the  throat  but  he  remembered  she 
was  a  woman.  He  siezed  her  arm  in  his  great  hand.  She 
wrenched  it  away  caressing  the  hurt  with  malignant  eyes  but 
he  continued: 

"I'm  not  through,  oh,  I'm  not  through  with  you\"  she  cried. 


THE    CLAW  227 

"Maybe  I  don't  know  all.  Likely  I  don't,  but  I  nin  guess 
about  things.  You  were  her  friend  back  there,  weren't  you? 
Her  good  friend,  oh  yes  she  told  me  so.  Guess  you  were 
sort  of  disappointed  when  you  got  back  here.  Guess  you 
kind  of  thought  you  were  stung  when  you  come  to  pay  the 
hospital  bills!" 

He  gave  a  cry  and  sprang  at  her,  but  she  evaded  him,  sprang 
to  one  side,  then  turned  and  clasped  him  about  the  neck. 
Her  face  pressed  his,  her  arms  urged  him  to  her  bosom,  her 
voice  came  in  panting  caress: 

"Oh  I  wouldn't  get  sore,  kid,  if  I  was  you!  That's  9,11 
right,  I  was  just  kiddin!  Come,  I  always  liked  you  even  if 
you  ain't  treated  me  square."  Her  eyes  were  coals  of  fire, 
her  hands  bands  of  steel  that  bound  and  burnt  him.  He 
strained  against  them,  flung  them  off  with  a  curse  and  threw 
her  from  him.  She  fell  heavily  against  the  door,  screaming. 
It  opened,  another  opened,  the  \vall  seemed  to  give  at  every 
point  and  let  in  faces,  forms,  men  pushing  and  ogling,  women, 
screaming  and  climbing  on  chairs  to  look  over  the  heads  of 
the  men,  girls  frightened  and  clinging  to  their  partners,  a 
policeman  pushing  his  way  with  oaths  and  brute  force,  and 
Blytbel 

The  woman  gained  her  feet  and  sprang  at  him.  The  officer's 
arm  intercepted.  She  turned  with  vile  curses  for  him.  The 
policeman  laid  a  heavy  hand  on  her  shoulder  and  reached  for 
( 'ameron.  The  woman  was  screaming,  protesting  in  hysterical 
terms  with  wild  accusations.  He  had  refused  her  her  price. 
He  was  in  her  debt  for  many  liaisons.  He  was  a  cheap  guy 
who  refused  to  patronize  legitimate  business  but  traded  on 
innocent  girls. 

Duncan  listened,  dumb,  looking  with  stupefaction  on  the 
crowding  faces  of  the  throng.  It  was  as  though  he  was  ob- 


228  THE    CLAW 

serving  a  cleverly  played  farce,  or  was  it  a  dream?  Blythe 
interceded,  clapping  him  on  the  shoulder  genially: 

"Well,  old  man.  I'm  sure  surprised  to  see  you  here.  Not- 
just  the  place  you'd  expect  to  find  one  interested  in  the  Uplift, 
eh?  But  maybe  you  were  trying  the  Uplight  on  Molly  McFee. 
How  about  it  Molly?" 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean.  I  don't  know  what  this 
means!"  cried  Duncan.  'It's  a  put  up  job,  a  plot,  a  damned 
plot,  all  of  it!  I  came  here  to — 

"Oh  yes,  that's  all  right  my  boy,  that's  all  right!  We 
understand,"  he  turned  to  the  crowd  with  a  laughs  that 
maddened  Duncan.  "Nothing  doing  here,  Ortly,"  to  the 
policeman  whose  hand  dropped  away  from  Duncan  at  the 
word.  "Run  along  Molly  and  no  noise,  it's  thirty  days  for 
you!  I  don't  stand  for  this  sort  of  thing  here,  you  know. 
The  policeman  pushed  the  girl,  sobbing  hysterically,  through 
the  crowd.  "Get  out  now,  all  of  you!"  the  crowd  vanished 
like  a  nightmare. 

"That's  all  right,  boy,  don't  look  so  cut  up  about  it!" 
continued  Mr.  Blythe,  setting  up  a  chair  and  righting  an 
overturned  bottle,  the  contents  of  which  were  staining  the 
floor.  "Boys  will  be  boys,  we  understand  that.  I  couldn't 
think  you  were  quite  the  exception  you  tried  to  make  out 
to  be.  Yet  you  did  fool  me  some.  I  wouldn't  have  looked 
for  quite  this.  You  oughtn't  to  hit  it  up  quite  so  hard  young 
man,  really,"  waving  his  hands  toward  the  empty  bottles 
and  the  disordered  room. 

"Mr.  Blythe,"  cried  Duncan  laying  hold  of  him,  "this  is  all 
a  cursed  damnable  plot  and  I  like  a  fool,  walked  into  it.  Don't 
you  believe  that?  Can't  you  believe  it?"  He  recitedjthe 
details  beginning  with  the  note  from  the  woman  and  reminding 
him  of  Glad,  the  girl  of  whom  he  had  spoken. 

'Oh,  ho!"  nodded  Blythe,  "so  that's  the  way  of  it.     I  knew 


THE    CLAW  229 

there  must  be  a  girl  in  the  case  somewhere.  Told  you  the 
other  day,  you  know.  So  it's  all  fixed  and  regular  and  Molly, 
the  little  she-devil  is  jealous,  eh?" 

"Jealous!"  exclaimed  Duncan  scornfully.  There  was  odious- 
ness  in  the  intimation.  "1  don't  know  why!  I've  never  had 
anything  to  do  with  her,  except  that  I've  seen  her  in  the  street 
and  other  places,  sometimes,  and  she's  solicited  me." 

"How  about  here?"  sneered  Blythe,  "and  at  the  Non  Pareil, 
the  nights  you've  been  seeing  the  underworld,  taking  notes 
on  my  business.  You  know  I  was  aware  of  those  little  private 
visits  you've  been  making."  Duncan  colored. 

"That's  nothing  to  me,"  he  said.  "I  told  you  I'd  been 
investigating,  looking  into  it  myself,  that  I  hadn't  taken 
anybody's  word  for  it." 

"Well  then,"  laughed  Blythe,  "it  looks  something  like  a 
boomerang.  No  offence,  it's  kind  of  funny  that's  all,  devilish 
funny,  ain't  it?"  Blythe  was  seized  with  extravagant  mirth. 

"No,  it's  not  funny,"  exclaimed  Duncan,  his  face  was  white. 
"And  the  whole  thing  has  come  through  the  cursed  kind  of 
places  you  keep,  it's  how  the  little  girl  had  her  down  fall  and 
it's  how  I  came  to  get  into  this  damned  compromising  business 
tonight,  the  whole  town  looking  in."  He  was  breathing  hard, 
the  seriousness  of  the  affair  gripping  him.  "What's  to  be 
done?"  he  demanded. 

Blythe  clapped  him  on  the  shoulder  with  returned  good-will. 
"Forget  it,  boy,  why  this  is  nothing!  Of  course  the  rough- 
house  isn't  pleasant  or  a  part  of  my  business.  I  make  a 
point  of  keeping  an  orderly  place  at  least,  you've  noticed 
that.  But  as  far  as  this  sort  of  thing  is  concerned,  what 
did  I  tell  you  the  other  day?  And  I  might  add,  that  a  young 
fellow  isn't  a  young  fellow  if  he  don't  take  his  fling  at  this 
sort  of  thing  sometime  or  other." 

"But   I    don't    agree   with  you,"    returned   Duncan,    "and 


230  THE     CLAW 

it's  not  what  I  came  here  for,  I  wasn't  brought  up  that  way. 
The  whole  thing  makes  me  sick." 

"Oh,  well,  cheer  up  and  come  along;"  he  guided  Duncan, 
in  his  ill  concealed  disgust,  out  through  a  back  way  to  the 
street. 

"Now  go  home  and  to  bed  and  forget  it,"  admonished 
Blythe.  "Course  I  believe  you.  I  know  you,  I  was  only 
fooling.  You're  one  of  the  straight  kind.  I  know  that.  There's 
no  harm  done,  only,  well  it  was  something  of  a  joke.  Ha!  Ha! 
And  if  the  papers  should  happen  to  get  hold  of  it  or  anything, 
but  they  won't,  don't  you  fret.  Good  night." 

Duncan  did  not  follow  Blythe's  admonition.  He  presently 
found  his  room  but  without  knowing  how  he  went  there. 
The  full  significance  of  the  night's  affkir  had  gripped  him 
on  the  moment  of  Blythe's  leaving  and  he  had  walked  in 
a  trance  of  horror  and  conjecture  that  took  no  note  of  things 
exterior.  Now  he  entered  his  room.  He  tossed  his  hat  on 
the  bed  and  sat  down,  his  face  in  his  hands,  his  eyes  staring 
blankly  before  him  trying  to  study  the  situation.  His  mind 
was  held  in  a  cramp  of  apprehension,  tortured  with  the  thought 
of  the  publicity  already  gained  and  of  another  fear,  the  one 
Blythe  facetiously  suggested. 

If  it  should  get  into  the  papers  before  he  could  get  to  any 
one,  to  his  friends,  to  Corinne,  to  tell  them  the  straight  of  it. 
And  how  could  he  tell  the  facts  to  all,  to  his  friends,  his  hundreds 
of  friends  in  the  city  and  throughout  the  valley.  The  cold 
sweat  stood  out  on  him.  The  fingers  with  which  he  held  a 
match  to  his  cigar — he  had  been  smoking  absently,  desperately 
— were  stiff  with  nervous  cold. 

And  how  could  he  explain,  anyway,  in  a  manner  that  would 
make  the  explanation  public,  as  public  as  the  story  would  be. 
He  could  not  use  the  name  of  Glad  for  an  excuse  to  defend 
him  in  an  affair  that,  barring  the  roughhouse  feature,  would 


THE    CLAW  231 

be  considered  by  many  men  as  legitimate,  ordinary.  Oh, 
the  whole  abominable  affair,  it  was  maddening. 

He  might  call  up  the  papers,  it  occurred  to  him, 
and  buy  the  boys  off,  but  his  acquaintance  with  the  Sun 
people  was  slight;  the  Searchlight  reporters  he  knew  not  at 
all,  they  were  new  in  town.  Besides,  he  threw  away  his  cigar  in 
disgust,  call  them  up,  give  the  affair  away,  when  perhaps 
they  hadn't  gotten  hold  of  it  at  all?  What  a  fool. 

Anyway,  hope  glimmered,  Blythe  would  see  that  the  thing 
was  shut  up.  Blythe  couldn't  afford  to  have  his  place  figure 
in  such  a  way.  Why,  of  course.  Why  hadn't  he  thought  of 
it.  They  were  even  now,  he  and  Blythe,  thanks  to  this  wretched 
girl  Blythe  had  had  his  revenge  for  Duncan's  rejection  of 
his  offer,  his  revenge  and  his  laugh.  After  it  Blythe  was 
immediately  placated,  his  genial  friend;  had  slapped  him  on 
the  back  and  assured  him  he  could  go  home  and  sleep  without 
anxiety,  the  only  danger  was  from  the  newspapers  and  they 
would  be  looked  after.  That  was  what  Blythe  had  said  and 
Blythe  was  powerful. 

Pshaw.  He  had  lost  his  head,  had  had  a  regular  brain 
storm.  Well,  now  he'd  go  to  bed.  He  was  dead  tired,  also 
his  head  was  splitting  from  the  numberless  cigars  with  which 
he  had  smoked  out  his  trouble  from  its  lair;  he  was  ordinarily 
a  very  sane  smoker.  Four  o'clock,  four  hours  to  catch  some 
sleep,  get  his  breakfast  and  get  to  the  office.  He  threw  off 
his  clothes  and  turned  off  the  light.  One  thing,  he  couldn't 
have  done  differently.  He  had  to  go.  The  fact  that  it  was 
a  hoax  instead  of  Glad  in  peril  made  no  difference.  It  was 
the  comforting  thought  that  sent  him  off  into  sound  sleep. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

When  Norris  entered  the  news-room  of  the  Journal  office  the 
next  morning,  he  found  McWhirter  crouched  over  the  morning 
paper  in  inflamed  and  expanded  condition,  his  speech  effectually 
blocked  by  his  untoward  emotions.  He  reached  the  sheet 
to  Norris  without  a  word  but  as  the  latter  read  all  his  young 
anathemas  were  not  sufficient  to  express  his  feelings.  The 
head  ran : 

"ROUGH  HOUSE  AT  THE  NON  PAREIL  LAST  NIGHT 

Woman  of  Under-World  accuses  Prominent  Citizen. 

Youth  of  Well  Known  Family  in  Unsavory  Affair. 

Other  Liaisons  Implied." 

Beneath  was  a  highly  colored  account  of  the  affair  with 
Duncan's  name  used. 

The  other  boys  arrived  and  fell  upon  the  sheet  with 
incredulous  ejaculations.  The  morning  daily  had,  during  its 
short  existence,  been  guilty  of  many  indiscretions  and  breaches 
of  the  code  of  decent  journalism  in  an  ambition  to  be  counted 
the  yellow  sheet  of  the  town,  but  it  had  never  accomplished 
such  a  dastardly  thing  as  this  before. 

"Oh,  the  dirty  skunks!  The  skulking  cowardly  ginks! 
The  fools,  to  undertake  anything  like  that  on  Duncan  with 
his  reputation  and  following." 

''What  do  you  suppose  there  is  to  it,  anyway?"  asked 
Hay  ward.  "It's  sure  a  fake,  that's  certain.  Let's  see  the  Sun. 
Nothing  in  it,  wouldn't  have  been  anyway,  if  there  was  anything 
to  it.  They're  white." 

"And  what  would  the  Searchlight  handle  it  for?"  demanded 
Barton. 

"Just  out  of  pure  cussedness,  out  of  damn    fool    idiocy. 


THE    CLAW  233 

'Cause  they  haven't  the  ability  to  get  out  a  decent  sheet,  to 
get  real  news."  McWhirter  was  getting  back  his  speech. 
"They  ought  to  be  ridden  out  of  town,  a  paper  that'd  do  a 
thing  like  that!"  His  further  reflections  were  not  printable. 

"What   are   you   going   to   do   about   it?"   asked   Winston. 

"Do  about  it!  Well,  that's  to  be  seen.  Norris  get  Duncan 
upon  the  line."  But  Norris  had  already  vanished.  He  was 
in  the  telephone  booth  frantically  trying  to  get  Duncan's 
house,  when  Duncan  himself  strode  into  the  news  office. 

He  was  white  to  the  lips  and  he  held,  clutched  in  his  fingers, 
a  copy  of  the  Searchlight  that  he  had  just  bought  of  a  newsboy 
outside.  He  had  glanced  at  the  page  casually,  scanning  the 
telegraphic  news,  then  his  eyes  turned  to  the  local  page  and 
the  story  caught  his  eye.  The  blood  left  his  head  as  he  read 
and  surged  back  again  with  a  rush  that  hurt.  One  thought 
flashed  into  his  mind,  vivid,  enlightening,  the  one  that  had 
evaded  him  the  night  before  when  his  conjectures  as  to  the 
woman's  reasons  for  pressing  her  solicitations,  the  inadequacy 
of  the  theory  of  her  jealousy,  teased  him.  Blythel  Blythe 
had  planned  it,  planned  it  all  for  his  undoing.  Blythe  had 
given  it  to  the  newspaper.  Subsidied  the  new  sheet  for  his 
purposes. 

He  was  in  front  of  the  Journal  office.  By  instinct  he  turned, 
his  mind  on  fire.  The  Journal  was  his  paper,  his  father's 
paper.  It  was  the  Searchlight's  natural  rival.  He  would 
find  redress.  Blythe  would  smart  for  this.  He  would  tell 
the  whole  story,  it  would  be  plain  enough.  It  was  the  kind 
of  damnable  plot  that  men  sometimes  play  on  another. 

The  boys  sprang  up  at  sight  of  Duncan  and  Hay  ward  pushed 
a  chair  toward  him  but  he  ignored  it  and  stood  with  his  back 
to  the  wall,  facing  them  with  clenched  fist  as  though  the 
Journal  five,  bending  concerned  eager  faces  on  him  were 
Blythe,  the  enemy.  From  his  stark  and  rigid  face,  his  blue 


234  THE    CLAW 

eyes  looked  out,  curiously  young,  with  an  expression  of  in 
credible  outrage. 

"Oh  say,  here  he  is!"  cried  little  Norris  bursting  from  the 
telephone  booth.  "Say,  what's  there  in  it?  It's  a  damn  lie 
ain't  it?  Oh,  we'll  fix  them  all  right."  He  pushed  into  the 
group  surrounding  Duncan. 

"It's  a  lie,"  said  Duncan,  "and  it  isn't.  It's  all  facts  except 
that  they  colored  'em  up,  gave  them  the  wrong  look,  played 
them  up  to  suit  the  taste."  The  boys  looked  at  each  other 
in  hesitation,  embarrasment.  Duncan  caught  their  expression. 

"No,  listen.  That's  all  right,  you'll  understand  in  a  moment. 
Wait  till  I  get  hold  of  myself."  He  took  a  chair  then,  bending 
forward,  his  eyes  flaming,  his  words  coming  between  set  teeth. 

"I  was  there  all  right.  I  was  sent  for  and  I  went.  I  was 
sent  for.  The  woman  sent  a  note  telling  me  she  wanted  to 
see  me  about  something,  about,  about"  he  paused,  suddenly 
and  went  weak.  His  jaw  dropped,  his  arms  fell  to  his  sides 
and  he  sat  staring  stupidly. 

"What's  the  matter?"  cried  McWhirter.  "Say,  he's  all  in. 
He's  hurt  or  something." 

"Yes,"  said  Duncan  rising  unsteadily  to  his  feet,  "Yes, 
I  forgot.  I  am  sick.  I'll  go.  I'll  tell  you  later,  another  time, 
later."  His  words  trailed  off  incoherently  as  he  rose,  slowly, 
like  an  old  man,  and  moved  away.  The  boys  stared  at  each 
other  with  mouths  open. 

"What  the  devil.  Say  he's  drunk,  no  he  ain't,  he's  sick 
or  something. 

"Norris,  go  after  him,  go  and  see.  Ask  him  what's  the 
matter.  Bring  him  back.  Gosh,  there's  more  in  this  than 
you  think,"  cried  McWhirter,  his  news  sense  rioting. 

But  Norris  for  once  was  out  of  commission.  He  stood 
staring  after  Duncan,  astonishment  and  dismay  rooting  him 
to  the  spot.  At  McWhirter's  words  he  broke  from  his  stupor 


THE     CLAW  235 

and  sprinted  after  Duncan,  taking  the  steps  at  a  bound.  He 
reached  him  at  the  corner.  Duncan  was  still  moving  in  a 
sort  of  daze,  his  eyes  staring  before  him. 

"Duncan,  for  the  Lord's  sake,  what's  the  matter?"  cried 
Norris.  "Have  you  gone  off  your  nut?  Say  buck  up,  it 
ain't  so  bad.  Why  didn't  you  go  on?  Why  didn't  you  tell 
us?  You  had  something  to  say  all  right."  Duncan  paused 
and  leaned  against  the  palings  of  the  courthouse  yard. 

"Glad,"  he  said,  his  face  white  and  wondering.  "Glad,  it 
was  about  her  the  woman  wrote.  I  forgot,  somehow,  I  was  so 
mad.  I  was  wild,  I  was  so  mad.  It  was  Glad.  She  wrote  she 
had  something  to  tell  me  about  her.  I  thought  it  might 
concern  her  safety,  since  that  last  time,  and  I  went.  Of 
course  I  couldn't  tell  them,  back  there,  and  I  wasn't  quick 
enough.  I  couldn't  seem  to  think  up  anything  else  that  would 
hold  water.  It's  made  me  look  bad,  I  guess,"  he  stared  at 
at  Norris  out  of  his  blue  eyes,  helplessly.  Norris  siezed  his 
lax  hand  in  a  violent  grip  and  his  young  eyes  looked  worship. 

"Duncan,"  he  breathed,  "you're  a  Prince.  But  here,  we 
mustn't  stand  here."  Already  one  or  two  passersby  had 
eyed  Duncan  with  interest.  "Let's  get  somewhere  where  we 
can  talk.  Going  to  the  Association  office?" 

"Yes,"  said  Duncan  rousing  himself,  "there  won't  be  anybody 
there  for  an  hour,  I've  been  going  early."  They  sought 
the  building,  climbing  a  half  dozen  flights  of  stairs.  The 
elevator  boy  had  not  come  yet. 

Duncan  unlocked  the  door  and  they  went  in.  "Sit  down," 
he  said.  He  took  a  chair  near  Norris,  his  poise  had  returned 
and  with  it  a  grim  attitude  of  fight.  "I've  got  it  all  sized  up," 
he  said,  "and  if  it  wasn't  for  the  complications  I'd  make  Blythe 
smart  for  it,  give  you  the  whole  story.  It  was  a  plot, 
a  deliberate  plot  for  which  the  woman  was  made  use  of.  I'll 
tell  you  all  about  it."  He  began,  detailing  the  entire  story 


236  THE    CLAW 

of  his  dealings  with  Blythe,  his  investigation,  nightly,  of 
the  cafes  and  the  details  of  the  evening's  affair.  Norris 
followed  him  alert,  eager.  Beside  his  interest  on  Duncan's 
account  the  story  held  all  the  dramatic  elements  of  a  great 
newspaper  story,  the  sort  that  falls  to  a  reporter's  lot  but  a 
few  times  in  his  career. 

Lord,  what  a  yarn.  He  could  see  it  played  up  in  the  Journal's 
best  style  on  the  first  page.  What  a  scoop  to  put  over  his 
contemporaries,  the  morning  papers,  the  sensation  of  the 
year;  Blythe,  the  big  man  of  the  town  caught  in  such  a  scheme. 
What  a  knock  out  for  him,  for  the  Searchlight.  What  an 
exoneration  for  Duncan. 

As  Duncan  talked  he  pieced  motive  with  motive  with  all 
the  genius  of  the  reporter's  mind,  the  news  instinct  that  is 
like  the  detective's  sense  in  its  specialization,  in  its  talent  for 
discovering  thread  ends.  It  was  all  plain,  plainer  to  him  than 
to  Duncan,  even,  for  he  knew  of  the  latter's  popularity.  He 
had  the  gossip  of  the  political  world  at  his  tongue's  end.  He 
knew  that  there  was  nothing  to  keep  Duncan  from  the  legislature 
if  he  wanted  it;  and  Blythe  coveted  this  man's  talents  in  his 
own  particular  interests. 

Blythe,  Norris  saw  it  all  now,  Blythe,  whose  enterprises 
included  every  phase  of  the  liquor  business  needed  to  have  his 
power  behind  the  law  makers.  To  have  one  of  those  law 
makers  a  partner  of  himself,  drawing  his  livelihood  from 
the  same  kind  of  business,  would  mean  the  assurance  of  vigorous 
work  at  the  capitol  in  the  booze  interests. 

But  Duncan  had  refused  on  the  very  grounds  of  disapproval 
of  Blythe's  business.  He  refused  to  acknowledge  that  vice 
was  a  part  of  the  liquor  business  and  that  it  must  therefore 
be  condoned  by  laws  made  for  the  purpose.  He  was 
an  idealist  and  held  an  exalted,  impossible  idea  of  the  industry. 
He  was  not  ready  to  withdraw  from  the  business  himself, 


THE    CLAW  237 

as  a  grower,  nor  from  efforts  in  the  interests  of  what  he 
considered  the  clean  and  honorable  end  of  the  liquor  business. 
He  was,  still,  in  the  minds  of  the  wine  people,  a  proper  and 
desirable  candidate  as  their  representative.  And  just  here 
came  tbe  cnix. 

There  were  not  a  few  other  idealists,  men  of  illusions,  like 
Duncan,  valuable  supporters  of  the  liquor  cause.  The  inner 
circle  of  the  liquor  interests,  the  liquor  men  who  played  with 
the  hands  of  vice  were  not  prepared  to  come  into  the  open, 
even  among  their  own  people,  and  make  a  stand  for  that  at 
which  many,  particularly  the  growers  of  wine  grapes,  would 
revolt.  There  would  be  division  at  a  time  when  the  liquor 
interests  of  the  state  had  most  need  to  stand  together,  defeat 
at  the  hands  of  the  prohibition  people. 

To  discredit  Duncan,  to  shatter  his  reputation  as  the  clean, 
upright  young  fellow  he  was  supposed  to  be — this  was  Blythe's 
plot.  It  was  a  diabolical  one  that  risked  nothing  for  Blythe. 
The  smirk  regrets  expressed  in  an  interview  appended  to 
the  Searchlight  story  in  which  Blythe  regretted  the  notoriety 
lent  to  his  irreproachable  refreshment  resort,  by  the  introduction 
by  Duncan  of  a  woman  of  such  character,  and  the  creating  of 
such  a  scene  effectively  exonerated  his  house  of  discredit. 
And  Blythe,  a  talented  reader  of  character,  had  banked  on 
Duncan's  chivalry,  his  loyalty  to  Glad,  to  block  any  steps 
toward  public  exoneration.  Oh,  it  was  devilish!  Norris 
chewed  the  end  of  his  unsmoked  cigarette  and  muttered 
unprintable  ejaculations  as  Duncan  talked. 

"If  you'd  only  told  me,"  he  groaned,  "if  you'd  only  taken 
me  or  some  of  the  boys  into  your  confidence  about  Blythe, 
about  this  offer,  we  could  have  given  you  Blythe's  dimensions 
in  a  minute,  there  isn't  anything  we  don't  know  about  men; 
our  business  is  a  clearing  house  for  character." 

"I'm  used  to  tending  to  my  own  affairs  and  working  them 


238  THE     CLAW 

out  myself,"  explained  Duncan.  "I  didn't  want  to  go  to  anybody 
else  about  Blythe.  It  didn't  seem  square  after  he'd  made 
me  such  an  offer.  I  didn't  want  to  imply  anything  wrong 
about  him  if  it  wasn't  there."  Norris  groaned: 

" You're  too  darned  idealistic,  Duncan,"  he  exclaimed. 
" You're  chuck  full  of  it,  of  the  chivalry  at  the  Round  Table 
age;  it  doesn't  go  in  this  Anno  Domino,  1914.  I  tell  you  it 
doesn't,"  and  Norris  bent  the  anxious  eyes  of  a  grandfather 
on  Duncan's  moody  and  pondering  face. 

"Oh,  cut  it  out,"  cried  Duncan,  he  had  no  mind  to  be  preached 
to  by  a  stripling.  "I'm  tired  of  the  talk  of  'idealism',  it  sounds 
like  Blythe.  Idealism!  You  make  me  a  Sissy.  Is  it  'idealism' 
to  be  square  with  a  man  and  expect  him  to  be  square  with 
you?  'Idealism'  to  do  what's  straight  in  front  of  you  to 
do r  like  looking  after  that  little  sister  of  Garrisons?  If  that's 
'idealism',  well,  call  it  so  if  you  want  to."  He  squared  his 
big  shoulders  impatiently,  reached  for  and  lighted  a  cigar. 

Norris  was  on  his  feet.  His  arm  went  impulsively  across 
Duncan's  stubborn  back  where  the  big  muscles  stood  out  under 
the  thin  shirt.  The  caress  was  almost  that  of  a  girl.  "By 
Gad,  Duncan!  It  is  idealism,  and  of  the  biggest  sort.  The 
kind  a  lot  of  men  ought  to  have  and  there'd  be  no  such  darned 
mess  as  this  you're  in  right  now.  I  haven't  words  to  tell 
you  how  I  feel  about  your  loyalty  to  my  little  girl,  not  Garrison's 
sister,  you  know."  The  bright  color  flashed  up  in  his  face. 
"I  suppose  I  don't  realize  it,"  his  voice  had  grown  suddenly 
husky,  "somehow  I  don't  take  these  things  so  seriously,  I 
mean  the  trouble 'Glad's  had.  It  seems  so  apart  from  herself. 
It's  as  though  some  white  little  butterfly  or  something  had 
inadvertantly  been  dashed  into  the  gutter;  soiled  and  hurt  for 
a  moment,  but  as  soon  as  out  it  was  itself,  clean  and  pure  again, 
for  nothing  can  really  touch  her;  the  sweet,  pure  woman  within 


THE     CLAW  239 

her.  Do  you  understand?  But  I  suppose  it  would  go  hard 
with  her  if  people  knew,  hard,  always." 

"That's  just  it,"  interrupted  Duncan,  "the  world.  That's 
why  I've  tried  to  save  Glad  from  publicity,  to  make  it  so 
no  one  will  ever  know,  can  ever  point  a  finger  in  scorn  at  her, 
at  you  as  her  husband.  They  mustn't  know.  We  must 
guard  her,  no  matter  what  happens.  Why,  even  the  reputation 
given  me  by  this  damnable  hatched  up  affair  couldn't  begin 
to  hurt  me,  as  the  facts  concerning  her  experiences,  unresponsible 
as  she  is  for  them,  could  forver  damn  her." 

He  spoke  with  the  concern  he  had  growingly  felt  for  the 
girl  and  Norris.  He  was  not  sorry  for  the  sacrifice  he  had 
made.  It  was  as  he  had  said,  no  sacrifice,  but  the  involuntary 
course  of  his  impulses  that  had,  from  his  infancy,  been  utilized 
in  the  line  of  duty  and  unhesitating  service  to  others. 
Back  in  his  brain  one  cry,  the  cry  of  his  own  self- 
interest — the  last  at  all  times  to  be  served — raised  with 
agonized  appeal,  the  name  "Corinne." 

His  mother,  Marlinee;  he  thought  of  these,  too,  but  he 
could  tell  them,  they  would  understand.  Corrine!  How  could 
he  bring  to  his  defense  now  all  the  facts  that  he  had  failed  to 
apprise  her  of  before,  of  Glad,  his  investigation  of  Blythe's 
places  after  their  unqualified  endorsement  of  him  and  his 
proposals.  Why  had  he  not  told  Oorinne  of  Glad  before, 
as  Marlinee  had  suggested?  She  had  seemed  to  think  he 
should.  How  could  he  make  Corinnc  understand  now? 
Norris'  thoughts  were  running  fast  along  the  same  line: 

"Well,  you  shouldn't  have  to  suffer  for  my  sake,  and  Glad's," 
he  said.  "We  must  think  some  way  out." 

"Oh  no,  let  it  go,"  exclaimed  Duncan  desperately.  "It's 
no  matter  about  me,  I  guess  I  can  live  through  it." 

"You  shan't.  We've  got  to  find  a  way  out.  I've  got  to 
get  McWhirter  some  word  right  now,  he  sent  me  after  you." 


240  THE     CLAW 

"Curse  McWhirter,"  exclaimed  Duncan,  "it's  none  of  his 
business."  For  once  he  condemned  newspaper  zeal  and 
forgot  for  the  moment  that  he  had  run  into  the  office  for 
vindication  at  the  first  word  of  his  affair.  Norris  was  thinking 
hard. 

"It  won't  hurt  to  tell  him  this  much,  and  it'll  square  you; 
the  same  that  I  gave  the  federal  officers  the  other  day.  That 
a  girl  you  and  I  know,  of  good  family,  who  must  be  shielded, 
has  been  persecuted  by  the  overtures  of  a  man  found  to  be 
a  panderer;  that  this  wom?,n  who  had  solicited  you,  as  those 
women  do,  and  was  refused  by  you,  made  out  in  her  note  that 
she  wanted  to  see  you,  that  she  knew  something  about  this 
man's  designs;  that  you  went  for  that  cause,  and  then  you 
can  tell  all  about  Blythe,  you  know,  and  his  motives  for  this. 
But  wait.  No,  it  needs  something  else.  This  ain't  enough." 
He  paused  and  gnawed  the  end  of  his  cigarette  in  perplexity, 
defeat. 

"No,  that  won't  do,  darn  it!  They'd  say,  anybody  would 
say,  that  the  whole  defense  was  faked  up.  We  need  something 
else.  If  we  could  get  the  woman's  word,  an  affidavit  to  the 
effect  that  she  was  bribed.  We  must  find  her,  try  to  get  it. 
Don't  you  see,  there's  the  key,  the  key  to  your  case  and  to 
the  biggest  newspaper  story  that  was  ever  landed  in  this 
town.  What's  the  name  of  the  girl?" 

"Molly    McFee." 

"Molly  McFee!"  Norris'  yell  raised  him  from  his  chair. 
"I've  got  it  then,  leave  it  to  me.  Oh  say,  just  leave  it  to  me. 
Lord!  what  a  chance!"  He  was  pounding  Duncan  hysterically 
on  the  back  with  his  fists.  Duncan  wheeled  on  him  with 
open  mouth : 

"What's  the  matter,  are  you  crazy?" 

"Crazy  nothing,  we've  got  it,  that's  all.  I  know  this  Molly 
McFee.  Got  to  beat  it  this  minute  for  the  jail,  before  they 


THE    CLAW  241 

let  her  out/'  he  grabbed  his  hat  and  dashed  for  the  door.  On 
the  threshold  he  turned  back.  "Say,  lay  low,  don't  say 
anything  to  anybody.  Stay  right  here  and  be  ready  to  come 
when  I  call  you  up."  He  was  gone.  Duncan  sat  and  stared 
as  the  door  banged  behind  him.  He  went  to  the  window  and 
looked  out  and  shortly  saw  Norris  hitting  up  a  hot  pace  in 
the  direction  of  the  city  jail.  Half  way  there  Norris  turned 
into  a  small  grocery  store  and  called  up  McWhirter  on  the 
phone.  McWhirter's  greeting  was  not  cordial: 

"Hello!  What  the  devil  do  you  mean  by  taking  all  day 
to  a  thing  like  this?  Where  are  you?  Why  don't  you  come 
back  to  the  office?  I  haven't  given  you  this  assignment 
anyhow,  it  takes  careful  handling  and  a  big  head."  Norris 
ignored  the  implication  in  the  zeal  of  his  interests.  At  the 
moment,  Duncan's  friend,  bent  on  his  exoneration,  had  vanished 
and  the  reporter  was  in  possession.  He  was  perfectly  aware 
that  to  land  the  story  meant  the  making  of  him  as  far  as  local 
newspaper  fame  was  concerned.  It  meant  a  quick  jump 
from  emergency  man  and  general  roustabout  to  "courthouse", 
maybe,  in  place  of  Hay  ward  when  the  latter  took  the  lay-off 
his  growing  habits  prophesied. 

"Come  back,  nothing,"  he  shouted.  "Why,  I've  got  the 
whole  story,  or  will  have  in  fifteen  minutes  more.  Duncan's 
told  me  all  about  it  and  it's  the  biggest  thing  the  town's  known 
for  a  blue  moon.  A  big  plot  that  involves  Blythe  and  maybe 
some  others.  I  say,  McWhirter,"  he  dropped  to  conciliation, 
"you  mustn't  call  me  off  now.  Duncan's  my  personal  friend 
and  gave  me  what  he  wouldn't  have  given  any  of  the  other  boys. 
I've  just  got  a  little  matter  down  at  the  city  jail  to  clear  up 
and  I'll  have  the  whole  thing  in  my  hands  and  we'll  put  it  all 
over  the  Searchlight  in  tonight's  issue."  He  paused  and 
waited  in  nerve  racking  suspense  for  the  word  from  the  other 
end. 


242  THE    CLAW 

"Well  hurry  up  then,  and  be  damned  quick  about  it,"  was 
the  cheering  admonition,  and  the  next  moment  Norris  was 
beating  it  down  the  street.  He  "beat  it"  across  the  next 
square,  but  as  he  came  in  sight  of  the  jail  he  paused  and  dropped 
into  a  leisurely  saunter.  He  swung  easily  up  the  steps  and 
into  the  office.  If  Blythe  was  behind  the  affair,  it  wouldn't 
be  an  easy  matter  to  get  an  interview  with  Molly  McFee. 

"Hello  Jeff,"  he  said  casually,  to  the  desk  sergeant.  "How's 
business,  anything  doing?" 

"Oh  not  much."  The  man  came  out  from  behind  the  rails 
and  stood  in  the  lobby  with  him.  "Nothing  but  a  few  drunks 
and  Molly  McFee.  I  reckon  you  saw  about  that  in  the  Search 
light  tbis  morning." 

"Yes,"  said  Norris,  he  struck  a  match  on  the  cement  wall 
and  lighted  a  cigarette,  and  handed  his  case  to  the  jailer. 

"Have  a  smoke?"  The  jailer  took  one.  Norris'  cigarettes 
were  of  the  best  quality. 

"How  about  it?  Molly  run  in  for  a  'moral  example',  the 
story  faked  up  by  the  Searchlight?" 

"Naw,  there  was  a  row  down  there  all  right.  Didn't  you 
see  who?  Cameron  of  La  Mesa  vineyard.  He'd  been  run 
in,  too,  but  Blythe  happened  in  just  at  the  right  time.  Blythe 
owns  the  cafe  you  know.  Blythe  didn't  like  to  see  -Cameron 
bawled  out  so  to  satisfy  the  crowd  we  just  gathered  in  Molly. 
She'll  get  out  in  a  few  days." 

"Hum,"  said  Norris.  "I  kind  of  wanted  to  see  her.  The 
Searchlight  beat  us  to  it  but  we've  got  to  have  something  on 
it — prominent  citizen,  Cameron,  you  know.  I  understand 
Molly  made  some  pretty  stiff  charges.  Maybe  she  can  give 
me  some  more  dope  on  it.  Think  I  could  see  her?" 

"Aw,  guess  you  better  not.  The  less  said  about  it  the 
better.  Blythe  was  anxious  to  save  Cameron,  you  know." 

"That's    so,    all   right."     Norris    started    off   indifferently, 


THE    CLAW  243 

then  he  turned  back.  "Oh,  by  the  way,  how  did  that  matter 
come  out  between  you  and  the  Chief  over  that  jail  break; 
the  story  we  held  out,  for  you,  you  know?  Did  you  manage 
to  square  yourself?" 

"Oh  yes,  sure,"  answered  the  man,  hastily.  "Sure,  that 
was  fixed  up  all  right.  It  was  awful  good  of  you  to  keep 
that  quiet." 

"Yes,  well  it  was  unusual.  We  had  the  whole  dope  on  it 
you  know.  McWhirter  wanted  to  run  it  anyway,  but  I  told 
him  better  not.  He  said  the  other  day  we  might  get  a  new 
line  on  it,  he  didn't  believe  the  thing  had  blown  over  so  I 
thought  I'd  ask  you." 

"Oh  sure,  sure!  It's  all  over,  tell  him  that.  It's  all  0.  K. 
There  ain't  anything  to  be  said  about  it,  really.  You  won't 
print  anything  about  it  will  you?"  He  came  close  to  Norris, 
soliciting  him  anxiously. 

"Oh  no,  I  reckon  not,  since  it's  all  over,"  said  Norris.  "Lets 
see,  did  you  say  I  could  look  in  on  Molly?" 

The  sergeant  showed  Norris  up  the  stairway  into  the  woman's 
department.  He  paused,  then  unlocked  the  door  and  handed 
Norris  the  key. 

"Be  sure  and  lock  it  when  you  come  out,"  he  said. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

Marlinee,  whose  time  for  reaching  the  office  was  a  half 
hour  later  than  that  of  the  boys  found  the  newsroom  vacated 
but  for  McWhirter.  The  latter  was  at  his  desk,  hunched 
over  the  devastating  issue  of  the  Searchlight  and  in  deep 
thought. 

"Top  o'  the  mornin'  to  yez,  Misther  McWhirter,"  called 
Marlinee  airily,  in  excellent  imitation  of  the  tongue  of  his 
forefathers."  What's  th'  news?" 

"J'  see  that?"  asked  McWhirter  briefly,  pointing  to  the 
cafe  story.  Marlinee  bent  over  his  shoulder  and  read.  The 
next  moment  McWhirter  was  on  his  feet. 

"Don't  do  it.  Don't  do  it\"  he  stuttered.  "Don't  faint, 
I  say!"  He  reached  frantically  for  a  chair  and  pushed  the 
white  and  panting  girl  into  it.  It  flashed  through  his  mind, 
too  late  that  Duncan  was  a  particular  friend  of  Marlinee, 
possibly  her  finance.  "Oh  Lord!  Oh  Lord!  What  an  ass  I  am," 
he  flayed  himself.  He  was  eminently  relieved  on  seeing  the 
color  rush  back  to  Marlinee's  face  and  her  eyes  flash  with 
challenge. 

"Mr.  McWhirter,"  she  cried.  "That's  a  lie,  you  know  its 
a  lie,  but  what  are  we  going  to  do  about  it?" 

"Well,  it  isn't  a  lie.  That's  the  trouble,"  said  McWhirter, 
delicately,  fearful  of  a  feminine  relapse.  "Duncan  was  there 
all  right.  He  was  in  this  morning  and  started  to  tell  us  about 
it.  Seemed  to  think  there  was  some  plot,  or  something.  Then 
he  had  to  leave  before  he  got  through.  I'm  waiting  to  get  a 
line  on  it  now  from  him,  sent  little  Norris  for  it."  He  did 
not  care  to  impart  to  Marlinee  his  uneasiness  in  regard  to 
Duncan's  strange  conduct.  Personally  he  thought  Cameron 


THE    CLAW  245 

was  drunk,  not  over  his  last  night's  affair  yet.  McWhirter 
had  no  faith  in  any  man  until  he  was  shown. 

"Let  me  see  it  again/'  cried  the  girl.  She  seized  the  paper 
and  read,  pondering  each  line,  and  a  light  fell  upon  her. 

"McWhirter!"  she  cried,  "I  know  all  about  it,  or  believe 
I  do.  It  was  a  plot,  a  plot  a  woman  of  that  sort  might  think 
of  to  entrap  a  man  that  her  wiles  can't  gain.  I  know  of  this 
woman,  that  she  was  interested  in  Duncan,  made  overtures 
to  him.  (Duncan  had  told  her  of  his  investigation  of  the 
two  cafes. )  "She  got  him  there  on  a  pretext  at  last,  and  I 
know  what  that  pretext  was.  It  was —  But  suddenly 
Marlinee's  mouth  closed,  her  head  dropped.  She  sat  tapping 
the  desk  with  her  pencil,  embarrassed  and  silent. 

"Well,  for  heaven's  sake,  say  it!"  cried  McWhirter.  "  You 
going  to  throw  a  fit,  catch  a  brain  storm,  like  the  rest  of  'em? 
Grab  your  lid  and  beat  it,  like  Duncan  did  a  minute  ago?  Or 
stand  rooted  to  the  spot  's'f  you'd  seen  a  ghost,  like  Norris? 
Say,  what's  there  in  it?  For  a  fellow  that's  been  as  little  of 
a  lady's  man  as  Duncan  is  reputed  to  have  been  I  must  say 
he's  stirring  up  a  devil  of  a  fuss  now  he's  got  in  the  running." 

Marlinee's  mind  was  dizzily  groping  for  safe  ground.  Duncan 
had  spared  Glad.  That  was  what  made  him  leave,  suddenly 
and  compromisingiy,  when  just  on  the  point  of  explanation. 
Well  she  must  save  her,  too,  but  just  at  that  moment  feminine 
emotions  rose  in  her  distracted  bosom  and  she  could  have 
shaken  with  perfectly  good  will  the  soft  and  endearing  little 
kitten  she  was  sheltering  at  her  home  and  who  had  precipitated 
all  the  trouble.  "Wasn't  a  man's  reputation  as  important 
as  a  woman's?"  fumed  Marlinee  to  herself.  "Must  Duncan 
be  downed  by  a  vicious  story  in  his  own  town  without  a  word 
in  his  own  defense  for  the  sake  of  this  foolish  little  puss!"  Well 
there  was  some  things  she  could  tell;  as  much  enlightenment 


246  THE     CLAW 

as  Norris  gave  the  officers  to  help  in  their  search,  and  she 
would. 

"Mr.  McWhirter,"  she  said  earnestly.  'I  know  how  this 
woman  managed  her  appointment,  and  why  Duncan  refused 
to  tell  her  subterfuge.  It  was  because  it  would  involve  another, 
an  innocent  young  girl,  whom  he  shrank  from  brining  into 
publicity.  But  if  he  had  thought  in  time,  it  needn't  have. 
This  girl  is  a  friend  of  mine  and  of  Norris,  that's  another 
reason  he  stopped.  It  just  occured  to  him.  She  is  visiting 
me  now,  out  at  my  home  on  the  vineyard.  She  was  in  town 
with  me  here,  before,  but  I  took  her  out  there  because  she 
was  being  persecuted  by  the  attentions  and  solicitations  of 
a  man  we  believe  to  be  a  professional  pariderer.  We  have 
notified  the  officers  about  him.  Norris  thinks  he  is  the  man 
wanted  just  now  on  a  white  slavery  charge.  This  woman 
was  in  the  employ  of  the  man,  we  thought,  or  were  afraid. 
She  annoyed  Duncan  about  the  girl,  asking  about  her  when 
ever  she  saw  him.  And  yet,  we  were  puzzled  that  she  would 
be  so  persistent  and  open  about  it.  We  thought 
maybe  she  had  heard  about  the  man's  designs,  and  for  some 
reason  wanted  to  frustrate  them,"  Marlinee  was  speaking 
with  care,  in  an  effort  to  keep  her  story  logical  and  to  the 
facts,  without  entangling  the  story  of  Glad's  first  experience. 

"Don't  you  see,  Duncan  got  word  from  the  woman  that 
she  wanted  to  see  him  about  this  young  girl;  my  friend.  Duncan 
went,  thinking  it  might  be  important.  No,  he  didn't  say 
anything  to  me  about  it.  He  wouldn't  be  apt  to.  Besides," 
Marlinee  caught  at  the  excuse  with  a  relief,  "I  was  away  from 
the  office  yesterday,  don't  you  remember?  And  Duncan 
didn't  know  where  I  was  even  if  he  had  wanted  to  tell  me.  But 
that's  it,  Mr.  McWhirter.  I'm  sure  of  it,  I  know  it.  It 
was  in  order  to  shield  the  girl,  a  mere  child,  that  he  wouldn't 
tell."  McWhirter  knitted  his  eyebrows  as  he  pondered, 


THE    CLAW  247 

then  his  face  cleared  and  he  threw  back  his  shoulders  as  if 
casting  off  a  weight. 

"Well  then,  that's  all  right,  and  I  don't  see  for  the  life  of 
me  what  was  the  use  of  all  this  brain  storm  business  over  it; 
wouldn't  have  hurt  the  little  girl  to  have  told  that  much." 

"Oh  well,  you  know  Duncan  is  different  from  some  folks; 
he  has  exalted  ideas  of  chivalry,  and  then — Why,  Norris  was 
right  here  and  he  couldn't  have,  without  speaking  to  him  first 
for  Norris"  (Yes,  she  would  tell  him,  it  would  help  that  much 
more. )  Norris  is  engaged  to  the  girl.  Don't  you  see?" 

McWhirter  drew  a  long  whistle.  "That  kid,  well  what  do 
you  know  about  that!  Well,"  he  grinned.  "He's  hot  and 
heavy  on  the  case  right  now.  Jumped  at  it  like  a  terrier 
after  a  rat.  He's  run  down  Duncan  and  telephoned  a  minute 
ago  he  had  all  the  story  except  something  he  wanted  to  get 
from  the  jail.  Norris  in  pursuit  of  a  friend's  vindication,  his 
sweethearts  rescue  and  reportorial  fame.  Sounds  like  a 
'movie'  doesn't  it?  Well  the  days  of  romance  aren't  over 
yet." 

Marlinee  waited  in  racking  expectation  of  Norris'  return. 
Should  she  have  told  McWhirter?  Did  Duncan  tell  Norris 
his  reasons  for  withholding  the  explanation  and  would  the 
latter  take  the  authority  to  use  Glad's  story  to  vindicate 
Cameron,  or  would  they  have  arranged  some  other  feasible 
explanation  that  would  eliminate  Glad  from  the  affair  and 
yet  exonerate  Duncan?  If  the  latter,  then  she  had  spoiled 
all.  She  must  get  hold  of  Norris  before  he  came  back.  She 
tried  the  jail  but  failed  to  locate  him.  She  would  call  up 
Duncan  at  the  Grape  Association.  She  could  say  little  over 
the  wire  but  would  try  and  learn  the  line  of  defense  determined 
upon.  The  sound  of  Duncan's  voice  reassured  her,  it  was 
firm  and  self-possessed  and  brought  composure  to  her  own 
senses. 


248  THE    CLAW 

"Duncan,"  she  said,  steadily,  "I've  seen  it  and  understand 
all.  What  are  you  going  to  do  about  it?  what  have  you  and 
Norris  decided  on?  Just  a  word,  so  that  I  will  know  what 
to  say.  As  much  as  Norris  told  the  officers,  Duncan?"  she 
added  anxiously. 

"Yes,  said  Duncan.  "That  was  what  we  thought.  Norris 
will  be  back  to  the  office  soon,  he  thought.  He  saw  a  way  out. 
He'll  tell  you.  Don't  worry."  Marlinee  hung  up  the  receiver 
and  dropped  forward  on  the  telephone  desk,  weak  from  the 
reaction  and  relief.  At  the  Association,  Whitten,  Jones 
and  Powell,  friends  of  Duncan  and  members  of  the  Association, 
dropped  in  one  by  one.  Each  had  read  the  Searchlight's 
astounding  story  and  each  in  turn  fell  on  Duncan  with 
ejaculations  of  amazement  and  anathemas  for  the  morning 
paper.  Others  came  in  with  the  same  indignation. 

"It's  a  damn  shame  for  the  Searchlight  to  run  such  a  thing," 
exclaimed  Powell.  "They  ought  to  be  boycotted." 

"And  Ely  the  hadn't  any  call  to  talk  in  such  pious  manner 
about  the  reputation  of  his  house-guests.  Everybody  knows 
his  house  all  right.  Say,  you'll  put  'em  through  for  this,  the 
Searchlight  folks,  won't  you  Cameron?"  contributed  Whitten. 

"Sure,  I  would,"  agreed  Powell,  "and  we'll  give  you  all 
the  help  we  can.  It's  a  cursed  nasty  trick  just  now  at  the 
beginning  of  the  campaign.  I'm  surprised  at  Blythe.  He 
could  have  shut  this  up  and  I  should  have  thought  he  would. 
He  ought  to  be  a  little  more  interested  in  your  success  than 
anybody  else." 

"I  can't  say  anything  about  it  just  now,  gentlemen," 
said  Duncan.  "Though  I  appreciate  your  kindness.  I'm 
deciding  what  move  to  make.  Sometimes  its  best  to  let  a 
thing  like  that  go  by." 

"Sure,"  assented  Jones,  "anybody 'd  know  it  was  colored 
up  to  suit  the  yellow  taste  of  a  yellow  dog  like  the  Searchlight 


THE    CLAW  249 

editor.  As  far  as  the  affair  itself  is  concerned,  Oh  well." 
he  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  clapped  Duncan  jovially  on 
the  back.  "Nobody  begrudges  a  young  fellow  like  you  his 
fling,  eh,  men?" 

Duncan  winced.  It  was  one  of  the  features  of  the  brain 
racking  puzzle  he  was  facing.  His  inability  to  clear  himself 
would  commit  him  uncompromisingly  to  the  wordly  viewpoint 
of  most  men  regarding  these  things.  That  he  would  not 
suffer  in  the  eyes  of  the  world,  of  his  friends,  with  anything 
like  the  condemnation  that  he  expected  was  a  matter  of  surprise 
and  shock.  He  resented  the  policy  that  restrained  their 
judgment  of  him,  he  strained  with  all  the  fierce  prejudice  of 
his  early  training  and  his  own  convictions  against  embracing 
such  a  code  of  morality.  But  he  was  bound  hand  and  foot  by 
circumstances,  events  of  so  bewildering  a  nature  that  in  utter 
hopelessness  of  working  out  the  solution  he  was  possessed  of 
calm  desperation. 

He  had  one  over-whelming  desire,  to  get  to  Mr.  Cummings 
and  tell  him  all.  With  Mr.  Cummings  he  would  withold 
not  a  detail,  even  to  Glad's  story.  It  was  due  him  as  the 
father  of  Corinne  to  know  every  circumstance  that  would 
assure  him  the  affianced  husband  of  his  daughter  was  &  man 
of  irreproachable  life.  His  loyalities  involved  two  women 
but  of  the  two  his  promised  bride  was  due  the  preference. 

He  had  the  office  girl  call  up  the  Cummings  home  and 
inquire  for  Mr.  Cummings.  He  could  say  little  over  the  'phone 
but  he  wanted  to  beg  Mr.  Cummings  to  reserve  his  judgment 
until  he  could  see  him.  Corinne  herself  was  at  the  beach  and 
he  would  write  to  her.  But  Mr.  Cummings  was  not  at  home 
and  as  Duncan  turned  back  to  his  desk  the  former  entered 
gravely,  with  inquiring  face.  Duncan  dismissed  the  girl 
and  closing  the  door  after  her  pulled  up  a  chair  for  him.  The 
latter  had  just  come  from  Blythe's.  He  had  had  no  intentions 


250  THE    CLAW 

of  going  to  him  first  but  had  met  him  in  front  of  his  office 
building  and  on  the  impulse  made  inquiry  into  the  affair. 
The  latter  had  urged  him  into  his  office  and  had  given  his 
version  of  the  story. 

"Pretty  bad,  I'm  sorry,"  said  Blythe,  "I  remember  that 
Duncan  was  popular  with  your  family,  attentive  to  your 
daughter  some  what,  isn't  he?"  Mr.  Cummings  winced, 
and  recalled  Corinne's  critism  of  Blythe's  manners. 

"But  it  couldn't  be  helped.  I  did  the  best  I  could  for  him 
If  it  hadn't  been  for  me  he'd  have  been  run  in,  too,  for  disturbing 
the  peace.  As  luck  would  have  it  I  was  there  last  night  on 
a  tour  of  inspection.  I  make  a  point  to  keep  every  department 
of  my  business  under  my  eye,  and  was  on  the  ground  just  in 
time  Don't  know  that  I  would  have  saved  Duncan  on 
his  own  account  for  the  situation  was  a  bad  one,  as  you'll 
admit,  and  has  lent  unpleasant  notoriety  to  the  cafe.  But 
a  feeling  for  his  mother  and  his  father,  I  used  to  be  one  of 
his  fathei's  friends  you  know,  made  me  do  what  I  could  for 
him.  It's  damned  unfortunate  the  Searchlight  got  the  story. 
A  muckraking,  one-horse  sheet,  that!  But  as  long  as  it  had 
it,  I  had  to  set  myself  right,  you  see  that  of  course. 

"Fact  is,  a  young  fellow  like  that  ought  to  be  shown  up. 
Now  I'm  not  squeamish  at  all;  I  haven't  anything  to  say 
about  the  kind  of  affairs  the  normal  youngster  entertains, 
but  this  was  raw,  I  say,  and  especially  in  view  of  Cameron's 
presumptions  and  the  show  his  friends  were  giving  him  here. 
I  guess  all  the  woman  said  was  true,  and  more ;  at  least  according 
to  gossip  he's  been  going  some  right  here  in  his  own  town; 
some  young  woman  up  on  Howard  Street. 

"You  don't  meant  the  little  newspaper  girl  he  takes  out 
some  times!  I  won't  have  a  word  about  Marlinee  Madison, 
I  know  her!  She  and  my  daughter  were  school  friends 
cried  Mr.  Cummings.  He  was  fond  of  Marl  nee. 


THE     CLAW  251 

"Madison?  No,  that  ain't  the  name,  its  another.  Sombody 
he  used  to  know  back  East,  extraordinary  pretty  girl  they 
say,  high-bred,  friend  of  his  college  chum  back  there. 
Particularly  nasty  case,  I  call  it!" 

Mr.  Cummings  had  been  listening  with  growingly  anxious 
face.  The  evidences  were  suspicious.  He  himself  had  met 
Duncan  with  a  remarkably  pretty  girl  whom  he  did  not  know, 
Corinne  and  he.  Duncan  was  either  pre-occupied  at  the  time 
or  did  not  wish  to  see  them.  He  had  never  spoken  to  them 
of  a  friend  from  the  East  although  he  had  talked  with  apparent 
freedom  of  his  life  there  and  of  his  friend  Garrison.  Why 
had  he  neglected  to  speak  of  the  girl?  Why  had  he  not  brought 
her  to  their  house,  made  her  acquainted  with  them,  if  his 
interest  in  her  was  honorable?  The  thing  looked  compromising, 
terribly  compromising,  but  he  refused  to  accept  the  in 
terpretations  of  Blythe  and  hoped  despairingly  for  another 
explanation  of  the  affair.  It  had  already  accomplished  this 
much,  he  forsaw,  eliminated  the  possiblity  of  partnership  with 
Blythe.  Blythe  spoke  of  the  matter  himself  with  apparent 
regret. 

"The  whole  thing's  inexplicable,  really!  I'd  made  Cameron 
an  offer,  an  offer  of  partnership  in  my  business.  You'll  be 
surprised  no  doubt,  and  it  was  something  unusual  I  own, 
and  worth  while  for  a  young  fellow  of  his  age  and  prospects. 
But  I  saw  what  we  all  have,  the  timber  in  the  man.  Duncan 
had  the  matter  under  consideration  but  I  will  say  that  this 
effectively  ends  all  negotiations.  A  man  that  can  throw  a 
friend  down  like  that  just  at  the  start  wouldn't  be  a  safe  one 
for  a  partner.  I  never  would  stand  for  excess  among  my 
men,  in  any  line,  and  I  certainly  would  expect  my  partner  to 
be  a  man  of  dignity  and  self-respect.  It  makes  Cameron's 
chances  for  nomination  bad,  too.  This  '11  queer  him  in  the 
eyes  of  a  lot  of  folks,  and  it  ought  to.  Going?  \Vell  good-day! 


252  THE    CLAW 

"I  say,"  Blythe  added,  observing  Mr.  Cumming's  gray  face 
with  a  new  enlightenment.  "I  hope  this  matter  isn't  too 
personal  with  you.  I'd  be  sawfully  sorry.  But  I  can  say 
this,  that  it's  better  for  a  man  to  be  found  out  for  what  he 
really  is  before  it's  too  late.  Good-day." 

Duncan  told  Mr.  Cummings  the  entire  story  beginning 
with  his  arrival  from  the  east  and  his  discovery  of  Glad's 
plight.  The  relief  the  latter  felt  in  the  utter  exoneration 
of  the  boy  from  the  ugly  accusations  of  the  morning  showed 
in  the  sincere  tears  that  stood  in  the  older  man's  eyes  as  he 
gripped  Duncan's  hands. 

"Thank  God,  Duncan.  Thank  God  for  this!  I  can't 
tell  you  what  this  means  to  me.  What  a  load  this  takes 
from  my  mind.  It  seems  incredable  that  Blythe  was  at  the 
back  of  the  plot.  Blythe  is  a  man  with  worldly  motives  and 
principles  and  your  refusal  of  his  offer  and  your  criticisms 
no  doubt  cut  him,  but  I  can't  grasp  his  doing  anything  so 
unprincipled,  so  dastardly  as  this.  However,  I  am  more 
than  happy  that  you  have  cleared  yourself  so  completely 
from  circumstances  that  certainly  looked  the  worst.  The 
thing  is  now  to  clear  yourself  in  the  eyes  of  the  community. 
As  you  say,  you  can't  do  so  at  the  expense  of  the  little  girl. 
And  I  will  say,  Duncan,"  cried  Mr.  Cummings  enthusiastically, 
"that  I'm  proud  of  you  in  this  matter.  Chivalry,  my  boy, 
is  a  virtue  that's  fading  from  the  world,  and  fading  fast.  This 
smacks  of  the  old  kind."  His  face  was  flushed  with  the  pride 
of  a  father.  He  himself  was  a  gentlemen  of  the  old  type 
and  the  fine  traditions  of  his  southern  breeding.  Duncan 
sketched  rapidly  Norris'  plans  as  far  as  he  knew  and  could 
surmise  them. 

"That's  all  right,  that's  all  right,  if  she  will  come  through 
with  a  statement!  That's  all  right  if  the  Journal  will  print 
it ;  that  and  your  own  statement ;  you  say  you  will  make  one? 


THE    CLAW  253 

They've,got  to  print  it!  We  won't  stand  for  a  dirty  low  down 
sheet  like  the  Searchlight  coming  in  here  and  attacking  the 
members  of  our  first  families,"  he  added,  proudly.  "Duncan, 
I'll  go  up  to  the  Journal.  Let's  see — Morrison,  the  editor, 
isn't  there;  he's  in  the  north  this  summer.  McWhirter 
has  all  responsibility,  you  say?  Well,  but  look  here,  you 
have  money  in  the  sheet.  That  ought  to  swing  it.  But 
anyway  I'll  go  up,  I'll  go  up!  They've  got  to  come  through, 
no  matter  what  it  takes.  Blythe,  if  he's  done  this,  will  find 
he  doesn't  own  the  entire  Riverdale  press!" 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

Molly  was  sitting  on  the  edge  of  one  of  the  several  cots  in 
the  woman's  department,  by  a  chance  vacant  except  for  herself. 
She  was  still  dishevelled  from  the  night's  fray  and  unwashed. 
Her  make  up  and  the  gaudy  finery  of  her  evening  dress  were 
curiously  out  of  place  in  the  revealing  sunlight  that  fell  through 
the  windows.  They  had  the  appearance  of  the  tinsel 
decorations  of  a  ball  room  in  daylight.  Her  face  behind  the 
heavy  streaked  rouge  was  worn  and  sullen. 

"Hello,  Molly!  Doing  time  for  your  fun  last  night,  are 
you?"  greeted  Norris.  He  seated  himself  on  the  cot  opposite 
her.  "Well  you  gave  the  Searchlight  the  scoop  on  us  last 
night.  Now  come  through  with  some  dope  for  me,  that's  a 
good  girl." 

The  girl  turned  her  back  on  him.  "Aw,  forget  it,"  she 
said. 

"Well,  you  don't  need  t  be  sore  about  it,"  said  Norris. 
"By  the  way,  I  was  up  to  Cayorisville  the  other  day." 

The  girl  started.  "Say,  you  were?  Did  you  see  any  of 
my  folks?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,  I  saw  your  dad,  and  he  was  hitting  up  the  same  old 
pace,  apparently.  And  your  mother,  she  asked  about  you." 

"And  you?"  the  girl  asked  breathlessly. 

"Oh,  I  said  you  were  all  fine  and  dandy  rnd  keeping 
busy.  You  were  busy  all  right  last  night,  wern't  you?"  he 
laughed.  The  girl  winced.  "What'd  you  go  up  there  for?" 
she  asked  idly. 

"To  see  about  some  business.  To  see  about  a  new  monument 
for  our  cemetery  lot,  where  my  father  and  mother  are  buried," 
he  added  with  hesitation,  as  though  the  names  were  not  to 
be  spoken  in  this  presence. 


THE    CLAW  255 

"Say,"  the  girl  bent  forwardly  eagerly.  "You  didn't  happen 
to  see  th'  stone  I  had  put  up  for  my  little  sister  Emmy,  did 
you?" 

"Why  I  guess  maybe  I  did.  Your  lot  is  across  the  drive 
from  ours?" 

"Yes,  a  real  nice  place,"  the  girl  answered  eagerly,  "among 
the  best  people,  and  a  new  stone.  I  just  got  it  out  last  week; 
white,  with  a  little  lamb,  a  little  white  lamb  on  top,  and  under 
neath, 'Emmy  Wilson,  Born  July  5,  1907;  died  May  8,  1914; 
'Suffer  little  children'. 

"Seven  years  old,  my  God!  it  don't  seem  possible  she  was 
that  old,  it's  such  a  little  while  ago  she  was  a  tiny  baby,  sleeping 
with  me.  She  was  the  prettiest  little  thing  with  blue  eyes 
that  laughed  all  the  time,  and  curly  hair.  I  couldn't  go  to 
th'  funeral.  I  was  up  at  'Frisco  and  sent  word  I  was  sick  a 
bed.  Oh,  but  I  wanted  to,  something  fierce,  to  see  her  just 
once  more.  But  God,  I'm  glad  she  is  dead!"  she  cried 
passionately.  "She  might  of  been  like  me,  its  so  easy  and  she 
was  so  pretty. 

"Well  the  stone  was  all  right  was  it?  Looked  fine,  and  as 
good  as  anybody's?  It  ought  to,  I  paid  enough  for  it.  Every 
body  robs  a  girl  like  me,  even  the  tombstone  folks.  I  gave 
the  man  a  hundred  dollars  for  it,  and  that  wasn't  all"  Norris 
stared  at  her.  For  the  first  time  compassion  for  her  kind 
took  hold  of  him  as  he  pondered  the  hideous  bargain,  but 
he  hurried  on  to  the  business  in  hand. 

"Well,  what  was  this  stunt  you  pulled  off  on  Omeron 
last  night  and  how  long  is  Blythe  going  to  let  you  stay  in 
here?"  he  asked  suddenly. 

"Blythe  promised  to  get  me  out  earl  and  he  ain't  done  it," 
she  looked  resentfully  at  the  watch  on  her  bosom.  "Blythe, 
Oh  Lord,  I  forgot  you  was  a  reporter!  What  made  you  say 
anything  about  Blythe?" 


256  THE    CLAW 

"  'Cause  I  know  all  about  the  business,  all  about  your 
bargain,  yours  and  his.  Now  Molly,  come  right  through. 
I  know  all  about  you,  you  know,  and  there  are  reasons  why 
you  ought  to  give  me  this  straight  with  no  fooling  round, 
see?  What  did  you  go  into  this  with  Blythe  for?  I'd  suppose 
that  you  wouldn't  want  to  get  into  the  limelight.  I'd  suppose 
you'd  be  rather  anxious  to  keep  in  the  dark.  The  papers 
get  up  to  Cayonsville,  you  know.  Your  name  read  Molly 
McFee  in  the  Searchlight  story  but  I  happen  to  know  your 
right  one,  and  I  might  put  the  right  one  in."  The  girl  whitened. 

"Just  what  are  you  going  to  get  out  of  this,  anyhow?" 

"Money,"  said  the  girl.  "You  ain't  so  green  PS  to  suppose 
I  did  it  for  nothin'." 

"No,  I  wasn't,  but  still  I  wasn't  quite  ready  to  think  you'd 
do  such  a  devilish  thing  as  this,  anyway.  You're  pretty  far 
gone,  I  know,  but  I  thought  at  least  you  were  honest.  I 
didn't  suppose  you'd  try  to  ruin  the  reputation  of  a  little 
girl,  you,  with  the  sob  story  just  now  about  your  little  sister," 
he  added  brutally.  "I  didn't  suppose  you'd  be  such  a  fool, 
either,  as  to  think  you  could  put  one  over  on  a  man  like  Cameron 
that  is  absolutely  out  and  out  straight,  that  all  the  country 
knows  is  out  and  out  straight,  and  that  you,  Molly  McFee, 
aren't  fit  to  black  the  shoes  of.  Now  I'm  giving  it  to  you 
straight.  The  whole  town's  laughing  at  you  and  Blythe, 
today."  The  girl's  face  went  a  sickly  yellow  under  its  daubed 
paint. 

"What  d'ye  mean?"  she  demanded.  "Ain't  he  a  bad  one, 
wasn't  it  him  that  done  it?  Blythe  said  so.  I  believed  him." 

"No  it  wasn't,  and  I'll  just  set  you  right  about  it.  Cameron 
and  this  girl  are  absolutely  innocent.  He  hadn't  ^een  her 
for  six  months  before  he  came  out  here.  Besides  they  are 
people  that  couldn't  possibly  be  involved  in  such  a  thing, 


THE     CLAW  257 

there  are  some  folks  like  that,  though  I  suppose  you  couldn't 
understand  it,"  he  threw  in  cruelly. 

"Yes,"  she  cried.  ' 'Don't  say  that,  I  have  some  sense  left 
anyway.  I  knew  she  was  all  right  herself,  that's  what  I 
liked  the  little  kid  for.  If  she'd  got  into  trouble  it  wasn't 
her  fault.  But  she  talked  a  lot  about  him.  That  was  before 
I  left  the  candy  shop.  Then  I  heard  she  was  in  trouble. 
I  went  to  see  her,  and  met  him  at  the  gate.  He  said  he  was 
her  brother,  but  I  knew  he  lied  'cause  I'd  seen  her  brother's 
picture.  He  said  she  was  away  too,  and  that  was  a  lie.  So 
I  didn't  go  in  to  see  her,  and  after  that  I  went  to  'Frisco.  When 
I  come  back  I  seen  him  here  at  the  Non  Pariel.  I  tried  to 
talk  to  him  about  Glad,  but  he  lied  again,  and  pretended  she 
was  out  of  town.  I  found  out  she  was  here,  that  he  was  looking 
after  her,  or  seemed  to  be.  Ely  the  said — " 

"What  did  Blythe  say?"  demanded  Norris.  She  hesitated, 
then  went  on. 

"Blythe  said  he  was  a  bad  one — a  low-down  sneak  that 
played  the  gentleman  and  the  pious  act.  Blythe  said  he'd 
been  running  down  his  business;  talking  about  his  cafes  to 
folks,  sayin'  they  were  immoral  and  ought  to  be  put  out  of 
business  all  the  while  he  was  keeping  this  little  girl,  and  may 
be  another.  He  said  Cameron  was  fooling  a  lot  of  folks,  and 
was  going  to  try  to  run  for  office  and  he  wanted  to  show  him 
up  in  his  own  colors." 

"And  you—" 

"Well  I  told  you,"  she  said  sullenly.  "I  liked  the  girl, 
and  then  he,  Cameron,  made  me  mad,  lied  to  me  at  the  gate 
that  morning  and  went  past  me  like  I  was  dirt  under  his  feet; 
like  I  wasn't  fit  to  live,  acted  the  same  way  in  the  cafes. 
Never 'd  have  anything  to  do  with  me.  I  was  glad  to  do 
it!" 

"I  see."     The  girl's  story  was  following  Duncan's,  and  his 


258  THE    CLAW 

surmises  to  every  detail.  "But  you  were  a  fool,  you  know. 
How  did  it  come  you  didn't  know  who  it  was,  instead  of  Cam 
eron,  the  other  man?  You  know  him;  he's  of  your  kind — 
Westweyer." 

"Westmeyerl"  The  girl  sprang  to  her  feet,  her  face  livid. 
"WesimeyerV  she  screamed.  "Say  that  again!" 

"Sit  down!  Sit  down,  and  keep  quiet!  Do  you  want  to 
go  into  the  tank?"  She  dropped  down  on  the  cot, 
her  head  in  her  arms,  all  the  blasphemy  known  to  her  vile 
vocabulary  pouring  forth  from  her  drawn  lips.  Norris,  inured 
as  he  was  to  such  words,  shuddered. 

"H/estmeyerl"  she  cried  at  last,  when  the  hysteria  of  rage 
was  over.  "That's  why  he  took  me  away  from  the  Ingle- 
nook.  That's  why  he  took  me  to  'Frisco  and  put  me  in  the 
cribs.  'Cause  he  was  tired  of  me;  cause  he  wanted  somebody 
else;  cause  he  saw  this  girl  an'  wanted  her.  Why!  I'd  been 
living  with  him!  He  promised  to  marry  me!  I  thought  I'd 
be  a  regular  wife! 

"An'  he  had  to  cut  an'  leave  her  'cause  the  cops  were  onto 
him.  He  dropped  me  at  'Frisco  like  I  was  an  old  cat  in  a 
sack.  Went  off  and  left  me!  But  I  got  out  and  come  back 
here  to  find  him.  I  found  him.  He'd  come  back,  I  reckon, 
for  her.  He  nearly  killed  me  when  he  saw  me."  She  un 
clasped  a  collar  of  beads  and  showed  a  cruel  mark  on  her  bare 
throat.  "But  he  took  me  back  'cause  I  could  be  of  use  to  him 
while  he  was  hiding.  He's  still  hiding — 

"Where?"  demanded  Norris. 

"Oh,  my  God!  I  mustn't  tell  you;  he'd  kill  me!" 

"If  you  don't,"  cried  Norris,  "I'll  print  your  name  in  the 
headlines  as  big  as  that  placard  over  there,  and  have  copies 
of  the  paper  in  Cayonsville  by  night." 

His   words   were   like   hammer   strokes   on   her  bare   head. 


THE     CLAW  259 

She  fended  them.  Her  face  livid;  her  eyes  desperate.  "Oh, 
my  God!  my  God!"  she  groaned. 

"Besides,  you've  been  stung!  StungV  he  cried,  "by  the 
man  that  promised  to  marry  you.  Stung  this  week,  while 
you  thought  you  had  him  to  yourself.  He  hasn't  been  hid 
ing,  oh  no!  He  thought  the  officers  were  off  the  scent.  He's 
been  trying  to  get  this  girl  again;  found  out  where  she  lived, 
and  went  out  there  and  intimidated  her.  Would  have  car 
ried  her  off  right  then  if  he  hadn't  heard  some  one  coming, 
and  had  to  beat  it.  You'll  protect  this  man,  will  you,  that 
took  you  from  your  home  and  from  your  mother  and  little 
sister  on  promise  of  employment;  ruined  you  on  promise  of 
marriage;  and  put  you  in  a  brothel  while  he  ran  after  others? 
Come,  what  do  you  say?"  cried  Norris,  shaking  her  roughly. 
"Will  you  speak  or  shall  I— 

"Wait,  wait!"  cried  the  girl.  "Let  me  think.  You  don't 
know  what  it'll  mean  to  me,  WTestmeyer — Blythe!  Blythe 
owns  the  baudy  houses  in  'Frisco  that  Westmeyer  operates 
for."  Norris  started.  "Blythe  must  have  known  West 
meyer  was  the  man,  not  Cameron.  Westmeyer  is  in  his  em 
ploy.  Oh!"  her  voice  shrilled  with  hatred. 

"Sure,  then,  speak  and  give  him  away — both  of  'em.  West 
meyer  can't  hurt  you;  the  Federal  officers  will  pinch  him 
before  night.  And  Blythe — my  story'll  fix  him!  Come, 
will  you  do  it?  Think!  Think  of  your  home,  of  your  little 
sister!  You  won't  need  to  appear.  The  charge  is  a  white 
slave  one,  a  penitentiary  offense.  Oh,  there  is  a  lot  to  West- 
meyer's  credit!  Come,  give  him  away,  tip  him  off  to  us, 
send  him  up  and  save  a  hundred  others  like  little  Emmy, 
like  Glad,  like  yourself!" 

The  girl  was  silent.  Her  breast  heaved  convulsively. 
"But  you — how  do  you  know  all  this?  What  do  you  care?" 

Norris    dropped    on    his   knees   before    the    distraught   girl. 


260  THP]     CLAW 

For  the  time  he  forgot  what  manner  of  woman  she  was.  A 
bright  flush  rose  in  his  cheeks  and  spread  to  his  temples. 

"Because  the  girl,  Westmeyer's  victim,  she  is  minel  She 
is  to  be  my  bride.  Because  she  is  beautiful  and  innocent 
in  spite  of  her  horrible  experience.  Oh  Molly,  I  don't  know 
about  these  things;  I'm  a  man,  and  a  man  can't  understand, 
but  she's  tried  to  tell  me,  and  I've  seen  how  she's  suffered — 
how  she  starts  of  a  sudden  with  an  awful  look  of  memory  on 
her  dear  face.  How  the  thing  follows  her  day  and  night! 

"She's  tried  to  make  me  understand.  When  I  asked  her 
to  marry  me,  she  cried — cried  terribly!  Think  of  that!  That 
a  girl  should  have  to  cry  at  such  a  time  when  a  man  asks  her 
for  herself.  She  tried  to  tell  me  that  she  couldn't  marry  me. 
She  tried  to  tell  me  what  it  meant  not  to  be  able  to  come  to 
her  husband  like  other  women.  She's  tried  all  along  not  to 
let  me  care  for  her,  but  I  loved  her  before,  and  I  love  her  now. 
What's  happened  don't  make  any  difference  to  me.  It  hasn't 
hurt  her  pure,  sweet  soul!  But  she  suffers.  Oh,  her  poor 
baby  lips  that  quiver  always,  even  when  she  smiles!  I've 
vowed  to  God  to  find  this  man  and  see  him  punished.  Molly, 
for  God's  sake,  help  me  do  it!" 

Molly  listened,  and  strange  emotions  moved  in  her  breast. 
She  had  known  this  boy  since  babyhood,  and  his  clean  young 
life  that  had  touched  the  world  and  its  vileness  at  every  point, 
yet  without  defilement.  He  was  a  suppliant  now,  at  her 
feet — her  feet!  The  feet  of  the  defiled,  of  the  unclean  one — 
one  from  whom  it  would  seem  no  human  creature  could  have 
a  favor  to  ask.  Yet  he  was  there,  no  longer  bullying,  com 
manding,  but  pleading,  telling  her  of  his  love,  of  the  anguish 
of  his  young  heart  as  though  she  were  another  woman — a 
good  woman;  as  though  she  were  his  mother  or  his  sister. 
And  she  could  help  him!  It  was  a  new  thought,  that  she 
could  serve.  That  she,  fallen  and  abandoned,  could  be  of 


THE    CLAW  261 

use  to  this  beautiful  boy  and  the  child  to  whom  her  heart 
had  gone  out  because  she  was  like  her  little  sister.  She  could 
save  two,  give  two  happiness  and  relief;  and  many  others •, 
Norris  had  said,  many  others  she  might  give  escape 
from  Westmeyer's  designs.  Besides,  she  owed  it  to  Norris. 
Norris  had  been  kind,  never  betraying  her  secret  at  home 
—the  story  of  her  ruin.  Always  bringing  her  news  of  her 
family  when  he  came  from  one  of  his  infrequent  visits  there. 

She  rose  and  stood  with  an  uprightness  new  and  impres-- 
sive  and  jestured  Norris  to  his  feet.  "What  is  it  you  want 
me  to  do?  How  can  I  help  you?" 

"Tell  me  where  to  find  Westmeyer,"  he  said  breathlessly. 

"At  the  corner  of  Filmore  and  M  Street,  in  the  old  hotel 
block,  in  the  third  story,  last  room  to  the  right  as  you  go 
down  the  hall." 

He  wrote  the  directions  down  hurriedly.  "Now  for  the  rest! 
What  was  the  arrangement  you  had  with  Blythe  about  this 
matter?  What  did  he  give  you  for  it?" 

"He  gave  me  fifty  and  said  if  I  pulled  it  off  right  he'd  make 
it  a  hundred.  He  said  I'd  be  run  in  for  disturbing  the  peace, 
an'  was  to  plead  guilty.  He'd  have  Johnny  or  some  of  'em 
there  to  pay  my  fine.  He  said  he'd  see  I  got  out  by  noon." 

"Now  tell  me  again,  just  a^  plain  as  you  can,  just  what 
Blythe  said  about  Cameron,  except  for  the  name  of  Glad. 
Don't  use  that.  We've  got  to  protect  her,  you  see."  He 
sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  cot  and  wrote  rapidly.  She  re 
peated  the  story  as  told  before,  with  surprising  lucidity  and 
calmness.  When  she  had  finished,  he  handed  her  the  notes 
and  she  signed  her  name — the  name  by  which  she  was  known 
in  the  tenderloin  district,  "Molly  McFee."  He  slipped  the 
note  book  into  his  pocket  and  rose. 

"Now  then,  Molly,  the  police  court  convenes  at  ten  o'clock. 
If  Blythe  keeps  his  word,  you'll  be  the  first  one  heard,  and  you- 


262  THE    CLAW 

'11  be  out  by  ten-fifteen  or  ten-thirty.  I'll  be  there,  and  after 
you  get  out  I  want  you  to  go  around  the  corner  to  the  notary 
public's  office — Cline,  at  Sixth  and  Washington.  I'll  meet 
you  there,  and  I  want  you  to  make  affadavit  to  this  state 
ment  just  as  it  stands.  After  that  I'll  look  after  you — give 
you  money  to  get  out  of  town  or  any  place  you  want  to  go. 
I'll  see  that  you  don't  lose  by  this."  At  the  door  he  turned. 
The  girl  was  still  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  her 
hands  clasped  loosely,  her  eyes  looking  idly  out  of  the  window. 
She  was  very  pale. 

"I  just  want  to  say,"  he  added,  "in  case  you  might  take  it 
into  your  head  to  throw  me  down,  get  cold  feet  or  anything, 
that  I  can  use  this  just  as  it  stands  for  the  paper,  and  I  will. 
It's  going  in  this  afternoon." 

The  girl  did  not  answer.  She  stood  as  before — preoccupied, 
indifferent.  He  closed  the  door,  turned  the  key  in  the  lock, 
and  gained  the  office  three  steps  at  a  time. 

"  'Ju  get  anything?"  asked  the  desk  seargent,  as  he  snapped 
the  key  back  on  his  ring. 

"Oh,  a  little."  The  next  moment  Norris  was  tearing  down 
the  street.  He  turned  in  at  the  Federal  building.  He  found 
Payson  and  Grant,  the  secret  service  men  in  the  office,  and 
gave  them  his  tip. 

"Say — are  you  sure  of  this?"  exclaimed  Payson,  eagerly, 
while  Grant  reached  for  his  hat. 

"Sure,  unless  the  woman's  lied  to  me  about  the  whole  thing, 
and  she  ain't.  You  saw  that  story  in  the  Searchlight  this 
morning?  I  caught  this  while  I  was  running  down  dope  on 
that;  woman  came  through  with  a  story — a  peach  of  a  story. 
Got  to  get  back  to  the  office  with  it."  He  was  off. 

The  men  left  the  building  immediately.  Norris  was  a 
youngster  to  turn  such  a  trick  when  they  had  been  using 
all  the  ingenuity  of  their  profession  in  locating  Westmeyer, 


THE    CLAW  263 

but  the  boy  had  given  them  a  valuable  tip  before  that,  had 
made  them  certain  the  man  they  were  looking  for  was  still 
in  town.  He  might  serve  them  again. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

At  the  Journal  office  Norris  broke  in  on  McWhirter  and 
Mr.  Cummings  in  consultation.  They  had  telephoned  Dun 
can  and  he  had  just  joined  them.  The  boy  was  breathless, 
his  cheeks  were  flaming,  and  the  triumph  was  in  his  eyes. 

"Well?"  exclaimed  McWhirter. 

"Say,  I've  got  it,  and  it's  the  biggest  thing  that's  ever  passed 
over  the  pike!  It's  all  right,  everything's  all  right, 
and  we'll  make  Blythe  wish  he  was  in  Hades  before  night." 
He  threw  his  notes  on  the  desk. 

"What!"  McWhirter  seized  and  read  them  with  inco 
herent  ejaculations.  "Say,  what  do  you  know  about  that! 
But  we  ought  to  have  this  attested  before  a  notary  public." 

"Yes,  I  thought  of  that,  but  there  wouldn't  be  any  way  to 
get  hold  of  Molly  in  jail.  Blythe's  got  'em  primed.  I  just 
almost  didn't  get  at  her  myself.  But  I've  arranged  to  be  at 
the  police  court  and  take  her  across  to  Cline  the  minute  she's 
out." 

"S'pose  she  won't  go?" 

"Well,  we'll  have  to  use  it  that  way  then,"  urged  the  boy 
stubbornly.  "Other  sheets  get  it  across  that  way — the  Ex 
aminer,  the  Chronick." 

"Yes,  you're  right,  but  we've  got  to  have  the  affidavit  if 
we  can  get  it.  Now  then,"  he  thrust  the  notes  back  into 
Norris'  hands,  "go  to  it  and  be  mighty  quick  about  it!"  Nor 
ris  dashed  for  his  desk,  exultation  seething  in  his  veins.  He 
was  to  write  the  story,  too!  He  hadn't  dared  hope  for  that. 
He  appreciated  fully  the  situation,  that,  as  McWhirter  had 
said,  the  story  needed  skillful  handling.  He  threw  a  sheet 
into  the  typewriter  and  the  next  moment  was  hammering 
madly. 


THE    CLAW  265 

"Oh  say/'  he  called  suddenly  over  his  shoulder,  "this  isn't 
all.  I  forgot  to  tell  you,  we'll  get  another  scoop.  Molly 
tipped  off  Westmeyer,  her  paramour.  He's  the  white  slave 
man  wanted  by  the  officers;  they'll  pinch  him  by  noon  if  they 
have  good  luck." 

McWhirter  dropped  back  into  his  chair  and  gazed  for  a 
full  minute  at  the  boy.  "Well,  that'll  do  for  you,  my  son. 
Too  rapid  an  elevation  in  the  journalistic  field  is  as  dangerous 
as  in  any  other." 

The  news  of  Westmeyer 's  arrest  was  telephoned  in  just 
as  McW^hirter  pounded  back  from  the  composing  room, 
where  he  had  seen  Norris'  story  in  the  hands  of  three  of  the 
most  rapid  operators.  It  would  be  in  time  for  the  noon  edi 
tion. 

"What's  that!"  he  wheezed,  at  sound  of  Norris'  ejacula 
tions.  "Scoop  number  2?  Well,  keep  right  on  young  man, 
you've  got  the  dope  on  that  too,  I  guess.  Say,  the  rest  of 
you  boys  can  lay  off.  Go  to  the  park  and  play  ball  today; 
Norris  is  the  whole  show." 

The  issue  of  the  Journal  that  went  down  to  office  history 
as  "Norris'  paper,"  held  a  144-point  screamer  and  two  two- 
column  heads.  The  paper  was  not  ordinarily  sensational 
in  its  leanings,  but  this  was  an  exceptional  occasion.  It  was 
a  chance  to  accomplish  two  good  deeds — exonerate  an  es 
teemed  fellow-citizen  from  a  scurrilous  and  contemptible 
charge,  and  put  one,  in  fact  two,  over  a  despised  contem 
porary.  Beneath  this  head,  designed  to  strike  the  reader 
between  the  eyes  at  the  first  glance,  were  two  opposing  columns. 
First,  the  statement  of  Molly  McFee,  properly  attested 
by  the  notary  public,  and  second,  a  statement  by  Cameron, 
brief,  explicit,  that  described  the  hoax  by  which  the  woman 
had  obtained  her  meeting  with  him — the  story,  in  fact,  as 
told  by  Duncan  to  Norris  and  Mr.  Cummings,  but  with  a 


266  THE    CLAW 

skillful  omission  of  Glad's  name  or  any  reference  that  might 
reveal  her  identity,  or  the  suggestion  of  her  first  experience 
with  the  man. 

Westmeyer  was  bound  over  for  hearing  at  San  Francisco. 
The  only  part  of  the  story  that  gave  Norris  regret  as  the  sheets 
of  copy  were  turned  off  under  his  eager  fingers  was  the  fact 
that  Molly  McFee  had  been  held  by  the  officers  as  an  impor 
tant  witness.  He  had  promised  Molly  that  she  would  not 
be  involved  further  in  the  affair. 

As  an  exoneration  of  Cameron,  and  an  indictment  of  Blythe, 
the  Journal  story  was  complete,  and  from  a  newspaper  stand 
point  comprised  one  of  the  cleverest  journalistic  coups  that 
had  ever  been  accomplished  in  the  town.  Norris  was  made 
more  of  than  it  was  in  the  power  of  most  youths  of  his  age 
and  experience  to  sustain  with  modesty.  The  boys  of  his 
own  office  generously  contributed  to  the  general  praise. 

Reward  was  not  forthcoming  until  some  weeks,  but  when 
it  arrived  it  was  of  a  form  to  sustain  Norris'  reputation  of  what 
McWhirter  designated  as  a  "movie  hero."  It  was  an  offer 
from  San  Francisco's  biggest  daily.  The  boy's  work  for  the 
secret  service  men  that  led  directly  to  Westmeyer's  arrest 
had  been  recited  in  the  ante-rooms  of  the  courthouse  during 
the  trial,  where  reporters  and  officers  loafed  and  gossiped, 
and  had  drifted  up  to  the  powers  in  the  editorial  office  of  the 
big  daily,  where  the  searchlight  is  always  active,  spotting 
ability  where  it  may  be  found. 

Norris,  in  the  delirium  of  his  surprise,  tossed  a  perfectly 
good  "fiver"  at  a  passing  taxi  for  the  service  of  bearing  him 
and  the  news  at  a  rate  that  defied  all  speed  laws,  out  to  Glad. 
He  returned  in  a  sobered  and  reflective  mood,  for  after  a  riot 
ous  celebration  of  his  good  luck  in  which  the  household  joined, 
Glad,  at  parting,  bestowed  one  of  the  famed  "little  round 
kisses,"  and  then  let  her  small  hands  slide  from  his  neck  to 


THE     CLAW  207 

his  shoulders  as  she  looked  up  at  him  with  a  demure  little 
maternal  rebuke: 

"Five  dollars  for  a  taxi,  and  a  telephone  in  the  house!  Boy, 
we  never  will  get  married!" 

His  jaw  dropped,  and  he  looked  at  her  with  genuine  chagrin. 
"Well,  what  do  you  know  about  that!" 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

.  At  Carmel  by  the  Sea,  Corinne  basked  in  the  enjoyment 
of  her  yearly  outing,  with  the  usual  following  of  masculine 
admirers  from  the  best  society  of  a  dozen  different  places. 
Her  mother  was  with  her,  and  Duncan  was  to  join  them  for 
a  few  days,  shortly,  coming  down  with  Mr.  Cummings  for  a 
week. 

On  the  day  the  Journal  story  set  the  town  by  the 
ears,  Mrs.  Cummings  was  called  up  by  her  husband  on  the 
long-distance  telephone.  She  was  so  long  at  the  receiver, 
and  her  exclamations  spoke  of  such  astonishing  news  that 
Corinne,  lounging  indolently  on  the  cottage  veranda,  called 
impatiently  to  her. 

"Well,  mother,  for  goodness  sake,  hurry  up  and  let's  hear 
what's  happened.  Your  'Oh's'  and  'Ah's'  and  'Is  it  possible' 
are  enough  to  give  one  nervous  prostration" 

Her  mother  did  not  respond  at  once.  In  fact  she  disap 
peared  without  a  word  into  the  rear  of  the  house.  Corinne 
started  up  impatiently  and  ran  down  the  hall. 

"Mother,"  she  called.  "Mother!  Don't  you  hear  me? 
I  want  to  know  who  you  were  talking  to,  and  what  they  were 
saying." 

"Oh,  your  father  was  telling  me  about  something  annoying 
at  home,"  Mrs.  Cummings  equivocated.  "He  calls  up  every 
day,  you  know." 

"Yes,  I  know,  but  he  needn't  have  turned  me  off  so  shortly 
when  I  answered  the  phone,  with  just  a  'good  morning,  sister; 
call  your  mother,  will  you?'  The  chauffer's  quit,  I  suppose, 
or  the  laundryman  has  lost  father's  favorite  pajamas,  or 
something  equally  thrilling,  though  your  ejaculations  sounded 


THE    CLAW  269 

as  momentous  as  though  he  were  announcing  a  national  ca 
lamity." 

"Well,  dear,  you're  going  on  that  trip  in  the  launch  today, 
aren't  you — you  and  the  girls?  I  would,  because  your  father 
will  be  down  this  evening,  and  will  be  here  for  several  days." 

"Oh,  is  that  it?  Well,  it's  a  wonder  you  wouldn't  have 
told  me  at  first,  as  though  I  didn't  have  any  particular  interest 
in  old  dad,"  the  girl  pouted.  "Well,  and  isn't  Duncan  com 
ing?"  In  her  pout  she  had  forgotten  him  temporarily. 

"Not  this  time,  1  believe.     He's  very  busy." 

"Oh,  fiddlestrings!  Very  busy!  He  always  is  busy,  makes 
me  an  admirable  fiance!  Hasn't  seen  me  for  three  weeks  and 
now  sends  word  he's  'too  busy.'  I'm  glad  1  haven't  let  you 
announce  my  engagement.  It  shan't  be  announced  till  Dun 
can  can  come  through  with  a  little  more  devotion — the  at 
tentions  an  engaged  girl  is  supposed  to  receive  from  her  sweet 
heart.  I'd  be  mortified  to  death  if  the  girls  knew  we  were 
engaged,  and  that  he's  left  me  down  here  alone  for  three  weeks." 
She  flashed  out  of  the  door  impatiently.  Her  mother  heard 
her  with  relief  calling  up  her  friends  and  arranging  an  all- 
day  outing. 

Mr.  Curnmings  had  said,  "Dear,  something  very  unfortunate 
has  happened  that  involves  Duncan.  It's  in  the  morning 
Searchlight,  and  I'm  afraid  some  of  the  Riverdale  people 
down  there  may  get  hold  of  it  and  show  it  to  Corinne.  She 
mustn't  see  it  till  I  get  down  to  explain.  It's  all  right.  Duncan 
is  all  right,  but  the  Searchlight,  from  motives  known  to  itself, 
has  started  a  nasty  scandal  about  him.  Plan  something 
that  will  keep  Oorinne  away  from  the  house  and  a  chance 
to  see  the  papers  all  day.  I'll  be  down  on  the  evening  train." 

Mrs.  Cummings  confessed  an  impatience  similar  to  that 
of  Corinne  concerning  Duncan.  All  her  pride  was  wrapped 
up  in  the  girl,  their  only  child,  and  she  demanded  for  her  an 


270  THE    CLAW 

extravagant  measure  of  adulation.  Duncan  had  never  been 
demonstrative  in  his  admiration  for  Corinne.  She  did  not 
understand  the  Scotch  character  that  feels  it  deprecative 
of  its  deepest  feelings  to  put  them  into  words,  and  she  con 
strued  his  attitude  toward  Corinne  as  lack  of  appreciation 
of  her.  Her  ambitions  for  their  union  had  not  until  recently 
accorded  with  that  of  her  husband. 

When  Duncan  had  come  home  with  his  newly-plucked 
honors  and  a  future  imiting  him,  more  brilliant  than  his 
friends  could  have  dreamed,  the  situation  changed.  He  had 
improved  too,  wonderfully,  and  altogether  he  was  quite  the 
most  promising  suitor  Corinne  had.  Her  vanity,  however, 
like  that  of  Corinne,  suffered  lack  by  Duncan's  calm  and 
unemotional  courtship,  his  refusal  to  turn  aside  from  his 
business  or  other  duties  at  the  solicitations  of  Corinne.  The 
news  conveyed  guardedly  by  her  husband  irritated  her  mind 
with  a  new  reproach  toward  the  boy.  What  could  he  have 
been  doing — what  wordly,  inadvertant  step  could  have 
brought  upon  him  this  surprising  charge.  She  was  impa 
tient  to  know  the  entire  story — apprehensive. 

It  was  seven  o'clock  when  Corinne  burst  into  the  room, 
aflame,  a  paper  grasped  in  her  hand.  Friends  had  met  the 
party  at  the  wharf  unable  to  keep  the  delicious  tid-bit  conveyed 
in  the  morning  Searchlight. 

"What  does  this  mean,  mother?  Have  you  seen  the  Search 
light?"  The  girl  was  breathless,  her  heart  bounding  in  her 
bosom  from  haste  and  emotion.  "This  is  what  you  were 
talking  about  this  morning.  I  know  it  was!  Tell  me,  mother, 
this  minute!" 

The  mother's  face  had  gone  white,  and  she  reached  for  the 
paper.  "Yes,  I'm  afraid  it  is.  Let  me  see  it." 

"Oh  yes,  look  at  it!  look  at  it!"  the  girl  cried,  thrusting  the 
paper  into  her  hands.  "It's  a  beautiful  thing,  an  admirable 


THE    CLAW  271 

picture — Duncan,  our  immaculate  Duncan,  in  the  limelight 
as  a  ladies'  man,  an  irresistible  fellow  with  many  amoratas. 
Duncan!"  she  laughed  scornfully.  "Oh,  it's  too  dramatic 
for  anything — a  regular  moving-picture  situation.  The  soiled 
do\e,  the  wronged  and  revengeful  woman  hurling  her  wrath 
ful  accusations  in  vain  against  his  adamant  heart!" 

"Hush!"  said  her  mother.  "This  is  awful,  Corinnc,  really 
disgusting  and  awful." 

"Awful!"  mocked  the  girl.  "I  should  say  it  is  awful,  if 
it's  true.  Duncan  couldn't  even  manage  his  affairs  of  passion 
with  smartness.  I  wouldn't  mind  a  little  manlike  deviltry 
on  his  part,  but  this,  to  be  caught  in  a  situation  like  this — 
made  the  laughing  stock  of  the  town — it  makes  one  sick!" 

"You  mustn't  talk  that  way,"  edmonished  her  mother. 
"Your  father  didn't  want  you  to  know  anything  about  it  till 
he  came.  He  said  he  had  the  entire  explanation  and  exoner 
ation  of  Duncan. 

"Oh,  he  did?  And  why  don't  Duncan  come  down  and  speak 
for  himself?  Ashamed,  is  he?  Hasn't  the  spirit  to  be  game!" 

Mrs.  Cummings  sighed.  She  could  find  no  words  with  which 
to  restrain  Corinne's  insolent  outpouring,  she  herself  being 
impressed  with  much  the  same  feelings  in  the  matter. 

Mr.  Cummings,  on  his  arrival,  rebuked  sternly  Corinne's 
tirade  of  Duncan,  with  which  she  greeted  him. 

"Wait,  my  child,  till  you  hear  the  whole  matter." 

"So  Duncan  sends  you  to  explain  for  him,  to  apologize,  to 
set  things  right  with  me!  Oh,  I  got  his  letter  this  morning 
—three  lines,  I  believe.  'Your  father  will  tell  you  all.  I'm 
sure  you  will  understand  and  forgive  me  when  you  hear,' 
et  ceteral  Well,  I  like  a  man  that  has  to  have  another  settle 
his  troubles  for  him!"  She  sank  into  a  chair  and  gazed  haught 
ily  out  the  window  as  her  father  talked.  He  gave  them  the 


272  THE    CLAW 

story  of  the  affair  as  told  by  Duncan,  including  Glad's  his 
tory,  but  without  identifying  her. 

"Now,  my  dear,"  he  concluded,  turning  to  Corinne,  "I 
can  see  nothing  for  which  you  should  feel  such  resent 
ment,"  for  Corinne  sat  unmoved.  "I  consider  that  Duncan 
has  acted  in  every  circumstance  a  most  manly  part — a  heroic 
part,  I  may  say.  I'm  proud  of  the  boy,  of  the  fine  chivalry 
and  self-sacrifice  he  has  shown  himself  capable  of.  I'm  proud 
to  call  him  my  son.  I  regret  beyond  words  the  circumstan 
ces,  of  course,  but  the  statements  in  the  paper  today  will 
constitute  a  complete  exoneration  of  him  in  the  eyes  of  his 
friends  and  the  public,  and  it's  likely  that  Blythe  will  'get  his' 
in  the  trial  of  this  man.  I  confess,  I'm  amazed.  He's  acted 
the  part  of  a  dastardly  scoundrel,  and  he  deserves  all  he  gets!" 

"So  Duncan  has  thrown  up  the  partnership  with  Blythe!" 
exclaimed  Mrs.  Cummings. 

"Why,  certainly,  my  dear.  As  it's  turned  out,  as  Blythe's 
showed  his  hand,  would  you  wont  a  son-in-law  of  yours  to  be 
connected  with  him — a  dealer  in  white  slavery,  an  owner 
of  the  vice  dens  of  San  Francisco,  to  say  nothing  of  his  ability 
for  dastardly  dealing?  And  to  think  the  way  he  talked  to 
me  today  about  Duncan!" 

"You're  sure  it's  true — Duncan's  story?  That  there  isn't 
any  possibility  of — ,"  she  praised,  bashed  at  her  husband's 
reproving  face. 

"Do  I  think  there  is  any  possibility  of  Duncan's  not  telling 
me  the  truth — of  his  lying  to  me,  you  ask?  Really,  Jane, 
I'm  ashamed  to  have  to  make  answer  to  such  a  question. 
I'd  trust  Duncan  beyond  any  man  I  know.  He  don't  know 
what  falsehood  is." 

"Oh  yes,  you  defend  Duncan!  You  call  him  ti  paragon, 
and  ask  me  to  overlook  his  having  made  a  fool  of  himself, 
and  me, —  Corinne  cried,  suddenly  turning  with  naming 


THE    CLAW  273 

face.  "Well,  I'll  tell  you  what  I  think  he  is,  I  think  he's 
an  unfeeling,  ill-bred  fellow,  to  have  got  himself  in  such  a  vulgar 
position — looking  after  a  silly,  half-baked  girl  that  could  take 
care  of  herself  if  she  had  a  grain  of  sense;  neglecting  me  and 
refusing  even  now  to  come  down  and  make  what  little  amends 
he  could  for  this  abominable  affair.  Afraid!  Afraid  to 
come!  A  coward,  that's  what  he  is!"  Her  face  was  scarlet, 
and  her  eyes  coals  of  fire. 

"You  talk  of  this  girl,  of  this  consideration  and  thought- 
fulness  for  her,  but  you  don't  think  of  me,  how  he's  neglected 
me  all  this  time,  even  since  we  were  engaged,  excused  himself 
from  his  engagements,  risked  his  reputation  p.nd  my  hap 
piness  for  this  girl  who  is  nothing  to  him.  Nothing?  He'll 
have  to  show  me!" 

"Corinne,"  cried  her  father.     "You  are  vulgar!" 

"Well  he  will!"  she  repeated.  "If  she  isn't  anything  to 
him  but  a  friend  why  hasn't  he  told  us  of  her?  Why  hasn't 
he  brought  her  out  to  see  us,  if  she  is  such  a  charming  and 
worthy  creature?  Why  didn't  he  enlist  my  interest  and  char 
ity  for  her  instead  of  Marlinee's?  Did  he  explain  that?" 
she  cried. 

"Yes,  he  explained  it.  He  explained  it  in  a  very  beautiful 
way — in  a  way  that  was  a  very  beautiful  compliment  to  you," 
said  her  father. 

"Well?"  Corinne  waited.  She  was  never  beyond  a  compli 
ment. 

"He  said  that  he  had  thought  of  doing  so  the  first  night 
he  called  after  getting  home,  but  the  moment  he  saw  you 
coming  down  the  hall  to  meet  him,  all  radiant  and  beautiful, 
he  knew  he  couldn't;  that  it  would  not  do;  that  somehow 
those  things  weren't  for  you.  You  lived  beyond,  above  such 
common  things — in  a  world  of  your  own."  He  paused,  with 
emotion.  He  had  heard  Duncan's  simple  and  eloquent  tribute 


274  THE    CLAW 

the  more  impressive  because  of  his  characteristic  reticence, 
with  a  great  happiness  that  his  daughter  could  call  forth 
such  sentiment  from  one  like  Cameron,  but  he  repeated  it 
now  with  a  kind  of  shame,  in  the  face  of  the  girl's  uncontrolled 
and  vulgar  outburst.  But  Corinne  was  appeased.  This 
was  really  more  than  she  could  ha\e  expected  from  Duncan. 

"He  said  that?" 

"Yes,  but  there  was  something  he  did  not  say  that  I  think 
perhaps  he  felt  without  knowing  it,  namely,  that  you  might 
not  have  entered  with  heartiness,  the  heartiness  that  Marlinee 
did,  into  his  solicitude  for  the  little  girl.  That  you  would 
not  have  understood  him — his  motives.  Your  recent  words 
seem  to  affirm  that." 

The  girl  colored.  "Oh,  no,  of  course,  no  doubt  I  am  not 
capable  of  rising  to  the  appreciation  of  such  quixotic  heights 
as  Marlinee." 

"That's  just  it,"  said  her  father.  "I  don't  think  you  are. 
I  don't  think,  1  haven't  thought  all  along,  that  you  have 
understood  Duncan,  or  appreciated  him,  his  unusual  and 
admirable  personality  that  causes  him  to  stand  head  and 
shoulders  above  the  average  man.  His  fine  ideals  that  he'd 
not  relinquished  if  he  had  to  die  for  them.  Perhaps  he  felt 
instinctively  that  he  could  not  bring  these  things  to  you, 
because  you  are  too  remote,  too  self-centered  to  give  him 
the  sympathy  and  understanding  he  would  need,  that  a  man 
might  expect  from  the  woman  he  chose  for  his  wife." 

The  girl  sat  silent  and  sullen,  her  teeth  pressing  into  her 
indrawn  lip.  Her  father  had  never  talked  to  her  in  such  a 
manner  before.  No  one  had  ever  told  her  anything  about 
herself  but  in  terms  of  adulation  and  flattery.  She  resented 
it.  She  resented  her  father's  championship  of  Duncan,  and 
above  all  she  entertained  a  jealousy  of  Marlinee  and  Glad 
that,  smouldering  in  the  past  weeks,  sprang  up  with  the  present 


THE    CLAW  275 

provocation  into  a  flame  that  burnt  in  her  throat.  Suddenly 
a  woman's  relief  came  to  her,  she  burst  into  tears  and  ran 
from  the  room. 

''Father,  I  think  you  have  been  most  unkind  to  Corinne, 
with  all  she  has  to  bear,"  exclaimed  her  mother,  severely. 
"I  confess  I  feel  a  good  deal  as  she  does  about  this  matter, 
and  1  am  wholly  out  of  sympathy  with  your  views  of  Duncan's 
conduct.  It  has  worked  unbearable  humiliation  on  Corinne 
and  has  spoiled  his  material  prospects  entirely." 

"Oh,  do  you  think  so?"  said  Mr.  Cummings,  dryly.  He 
lit  a  cigar,  drew  the  morning  paper  out  of  his  pocket  and 
began  reading.  Mrs.  Cummings,  in  disgust,  joined  her  daugh 
ter. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

Duncan  resumed  his  duties  at  the  office  of  the  Grape  Pro 
tective  Association  with  outward  composure,  after  the  spec 
tacular  circumstance  in  which  he  had  occupied  the  leading 
role.  His  friends  said  he  carried  himself  uncommonly  well. 
The  affair  had  secured  for  him  the  popularity  yielded  a  man 
who  has  been  the  victim  of  treacherous  designs  and  has  suc 
cessfully  frustrated  them,  but  Duncan  had  never  aspired  at 
any  time  to  the  role  of  hero.  He  felt  a  deep  chagrin  in  the 
knowledge  that  his  name  was  on  the  lips  of  the  entire  town. 
In  his  own  sense  of  humiliation,  Corinne,  her  embarrassment, 
the  unpleasant  association  that  would  be  hers  on  account 
of  their  generally  acknowledged  relationship,  increased  his 
discomfort. 

He  had  not  gone  down  to  Carmel  with  Mr.  Cummings, 
as  his  impulse  urged  him  to  do,  for  the  work  of  the  association 
pressed,  and  he  had  given  almost  the  entire  day  to  his  own 
interests.  He  promised  himself,  and  Corinne,  in  the  letter 
mailed  on  the  same  train  on  which  her  father  left  for  the  beach, 
that  he  would  be  down  the  following  week. 

It  was  wrell  for  his  own  peace  of  mind  that  he  postponed 
his  visit.  Corinne  refused  to  answer  Duncan's  letter  with 
a  single  line  of  assurance,  but  by  the  middle  of  the  following 
week  the  tribute  Mr.  Cummings  had  quoted  from  Duncan 
began  to  accomplish  its  work.  Duncan  did  not  wholly  lack 
the  sentiments  of  a  lover.  Also  the  famous  copy  of  the  Journal, 
that  re-established  Duncan's  assailed  character  and  worsted 
so  brilliantly  the  assailer,  was  impressive.  Letters  came 
pouring  in  from  her  friends  eugolizing  Duncan  and  condemn 
ing  Blythe.  As  Duncan's  fiance  (the  fact  was  generally 


THE    CLAW  277 

understood  by  her  friends),  she  found  herself  a  sort  of  heroine, 
once  removed. 

A  letter  to  Duncan  toward  the  end  of  the  week,  with  grace 
ful  excuse  for  neglect,  reached  him  the  day  before  he  had 
planned  to  leave  for  the  coast.  It  gave  him  great  happiness. 
Corinne  had  chosen  to  let  him  wait  for  her  pardon,  and  suffer 
a  bit  for  his  stupidity.  It  was  her  right.  He  had  gone  over 
the  affair  many  times  since,  and  accused  himself  of  unre- 
sourcefulness.  Corinne  had  reason  to  feel  impatience,  and 
the  sweet  generosity  that  breathed  from  her  note  touched  him. 

The  beach  outing  was  a  golden  memoiy  for  Duncan,  brief 
as  it  was.  Corinne  was  in  her  most  ingratiating  mood, 
and  the  delightful  intimacy  provided  by  the  fact  of  his  presence 
as  a  house-guest,  and  the  many  opportunities  of  compan 
ionship  together  on  the  beach  or  on  the  bay,  or  on  the  long 
tramps  along  the  wind-swept  cliffs,  discovered  daily  to  him 
new  attractions  in  the  woman  he  was  assured  already  encom 
passed  all  womanly  charms. 

But  under  it  all  a  certain  depression  lurked  that  claimed 
him  when  alone;  a  sense  of  a  great  hurt.  His  faith  in  the 
justification  of  the  traffic  in  whose  interest  he  was  employed 
and  toward  which  he  was  contributing  his  part,  was  shaken; 
a  great  foreboding,  the  need  of  relinquishing  many  things, 
in  fact,  no  less  than  the  whole  fabric  of  his  moral  prejudices 
and  convictions,  shook  him,  as  the  vibrations  of  an  earthquake 
are  felt,  that  threaten  catastrophe  shortly,  and  the  levelling 
of  all  things. 

Duncan,  at  last,  had  met  in  the  open,  in  a  series  of  distinct 
engagements,  the  forces,  the  principles,  the  men,  the  bust-ness 
that  reduce  purity  to  debauchery  and  innocence  to  vice. 
These  men  and  conditions  should  be  looked  after,  they  and  all 
the  intermediate  class  of  evil  doers.  It  was  not  the  responsi 
bility  of  a  few,  but  bis  responsibility — the  responsibility  of 


278  THE     CLAW 

every  decent  .and  right  minded  man.  And  he  had  pledged 
himself  to  look  to  his  responsibility.  He  pledged  himself, 
if  he  got  to  the  state  legislature  to  do  his  best  to  eliminate  the 
abuses  connected  with  the  liquor  business,  the  low  saloons, 
the  dives,  the  illicit  selling.  Yet,  in  doing  so,  in  doing  all  he 
had  done  and  all  he  promised  himself  to  do,  would  he  yet  be 
guilty?  Of  what?  His  mind  shrank  from  the  answer.  Guilty 
of  establishing  in  power,  the  very  sources  of  these  various  evils; 
the  great  persuader  of  men  towards  all  forms  of  depravity, 
all  manner  of  denials  of  conscience  and  duty  and  sense  of 
decency  and  justice.  In  other  words — and  the  question  rose 
on  his  mental  horizon  like  a  frightful  specter — Was  not  the 
liquor  traffic  from  the  soil  and  the  vine  up  the  Evil  behind  the 
evils?" 

With  such  a  consideration  tugging  at  his  sleeve  for  attention, 
he  resumed  his  duties  at  the  Grape  Protective  Association 
with  an  utter  lack  of  enthusiasm — an  utter  distaste  that 
caused  him  to  wish  he  could  forget  the  very  name  of  the  con 
tention  that  held  the  political  field  and  into  which  he  would 
be  drawn — must  be  drawn,  shortly,  must  as  a  man  make  one 
stand  or  the  other  and  throw  the  weight  of  all  his  energies 
into  that  choice. 

Even  now  he  should  be  declaring  himself  if  he  desired  the 
nomination  of  assemblyman.  The  wine  men  were  taking  it 
for  granted  that  he  wanted — coveted — the  office.  No  sane 
young  man  of  twenty-six  could  refuse  such  a  plum.  They 
were  proceeding  with  the  understanding  that  1  e  would  take 
the  nomination  and  were  already  engaged  in  plans  to  make 
known  his  candidacy  at  a  banquet  of  the  wine  men  the  com 
ing  week. 

He  had  not  the  slightest  doubt  but  that  he  would  accept. 
By  very  inertia,  by  the  very  inability  to  consider  the  breaking 
away  from  his  lifetime  associations  and  convictions,  he  would 


THE    CLAW  279 

accept,  but  that  he  should  find  himself  serving,  not  the  cause 
he  ought  to  serve,  but  one  manipulated  by  and  in  the  interests 
of  the  worst  element  represented  therein — a  party  to  the  evil 
he  had  expected  to  defeat  was  the  dark  foreboding  that  his 
present  reflections  suggested.  Eventually  he  did  the  unusual. 
He  sought  a  confidant.  He  told  Mr.  Cummings  his  fears. 

"It's  not  that  I  think  the  whole  system  and  all  belonging 
to  it  is  rotten/'  he  concluded.  "That  would  mean  to  implicate 
you  and  me  in  the  responsibility  for  conditions.  But  the  ques 
tion  is — can  we — can  decent  men  control  the  business,  and 
manipulate  the  laws  to  the  elimination  of  these  features  and 
these  men  that  are  a  disgrace  to  every  one  of  us  engaged  in 
the  industry?" 

He  sat  moodily  in  his  chair  behind  the  office  desk,  his  young 
eyes  looking  sternly  before  him,  and  afar,  as  though  he  saw 
the  reproach  he  had  named  moving  toward  him,  in  some  sad 
future.  The  arraignment  of  evil  by  youth  is  an  impressive 
thing  and  not  without  its  rebuke.  The  mind  of  age  recalls 
with  trepidation,  under  the  candid  gaze  of  those  clear,  unclouded 
eyes,  the  neglect,  the  compromises,  the  surrenders  of  which 
it  has  been  guilty  since  the  day  when  it,  like  this  youth,  un 
covered  with  indignant  heart,  weakness,  wrrong,  evil  undreamed 
of,  in  a  world  which  it  had  thought  till  then,  wholly  fair. 

Mr.  Cummings  was  a  wordly  man,  but  as  such,  one  of  the 
best.  He  had  made  his  fortune  with  less  capitulations  than 
most  men.  Above  the  grade  of  Blythe,  he  was  raised  as 
high  as  the  tree  above  the  offal  at  its  roots  that  nourished  it. 
And  that  was  the  secret  of  his  career,  the  career  of  the  men 
engaged  in  the  politer  forms  of  the  liquor  business;  he  drew 
his  success,  his  prosperity,  from  an  unacknowledged,  perhaps 
unrecognized  wrong,  beneath  the  surface  of  his  business, 
a  wrong  that  accomplishes  not  only  material  injustice  and 


280  THE    CLAW 

material  suffering,  but  the  more  subtle  hurt — an  assault  on 
the  man  himself,  on  his  mind  and  his  soul. 

Possibly  it  was  this  sense  of  arraignment  and  the  realiza 
tion  of  it,  as  he  sat  in  the  presence  of  the  strong  young  man 
across  the  table  from  him,  that  urged  Mr.  Cummings  to  more 
than  usually  forceful  efforts  in  clearing  Duncan's  apparently 
befogged  brain. 

"Well,  boy,  it's  no  wonder  you  feel  as  you  do.  You've 
been  hit  hard,  and  in  rapid  succession.  It's  logical  that  a 
man  of  your  temperament  and  your  age  should  feel  as  you  do, 
you,  who  start  out  with  all  sorts  of  confidence  in  life  and  the 
motives  of  men,  because  you  are  young,  and,  in  yourself,  are 
right.  It  comes  hard.  I'm  pretty  far  away  from  my  own 
youth  but,  by  Gad — I  can  understand  it. 

"But,  because  of  your  very  temperament,  a  temperament — 
I  say  it  to  your  credit — exceptionally  quixotic  and  one  that 
assumes  responsibility  early,  you  are  peculiarly  liable  to 
some  excess  in  your  judgments — some  exaggeration  in  your 
conclusions.  It's  easier  in  your  young  indignation  to  over 
estimate,  rather  than  to  under  estimate  things,  the  regret- 
able  things  of  the  world.  It's  very  easy  for  your  mind  in  its 
feeling  of  revolt  to  conceive  incorrect  causes  or  to  fail  of  dis 
crimination  in  assigning  them.  You're  in  danger  of  assuming 
too  much  responsibility  for  others.  Its  an  over  conscientious 
ness  that  tends  to  the  cramping  of  action,  the  restriction  of 
growth  and  the  possibility  of  the  greater  usefulness.  Its  the 
malady  of  the  over  sensitive  mind,  one  that,  not  to  give  offense, 
provides  the  fanatic,  the  'crank.' 

"There  is  a  middle  stand  one  may  take  in  all  matters,  one 
that  lean.s  neither  to  the  one  side  nor  to  the  other.  In  the 
present  argument,  that  is  the  side  you  and  I  already  occupy, 
that  your  father  occupied  before  you;  it  is  the  side  that  claims 
from  thinking  men  and  women  their  sympathy  and  support. 


THE    CLAW  281 

"Of  course,  though,  I  needn't  go  into  all  this — you  know  it 
already.  You  are  in  the  employ  and  are  daily  engaged  in 
the  interests  of  that  contingent,  those,  I  call,  the  Contingent  of 
the  Sane.  Yet,  with  the  recent  jolts  you've  had  from  the 
other  side  of  our  business — the  side  of  the  Excess — its  worth 
while  fortifying  your  mind  with  the  argument  of  our  side  in 
order  that  you're  not  thrown  from  sheer  reaction  to  the  side 
of  the  other  excess — prohibition. 

"Temperance,  my  boy,  temperance — a  noble  word — is  the 
only  solution  for  this  problem.  It's  the  only  possible  stand 
to  take.  It's  the  only  safe  ground  that  will  provide  on  the 
one  hand  for  regulation  and  the  elimination  of  abuse  and  on 
the  other  hand  against  a  revolt  from  the  threatened  regimen 
that  would  curtail  personal  liberty,  develop  regulation  of  each 
man's  habits  to  a  common  rule,  the  result  of  which  would  be 
a  reaction  to  animalism. 

"My  boy,"  continued  Mr.  Cummings,  earnestly,  "you 
have  looked  upon  the  abuses  of  our  business  and  your  horror 
has  caused  you  to  say,  'Can  any  good  live  in  this  thing?'  But 
have  you  recalled  the  good,  the  undeniable  good  that  belongs 
to  the  business;  the  part  the  industry  has  had  in  the  economic 
life  of  the  state;  the  lands  it  has  turned  from  useless  desert  to 
fruitful  acres  supporting  families,  industries,  whole  com 
munities  and  great  cities;  the  people  it  gives  honest  employ 
ment;  the  harmless  social  pleasures  it  provides — not  in  the 
questionable  refreshment  places  and  disreputable  dives  alone. 
Wine  is  there,  but  is  it  there  only?  Is  it  not  a  part  of  the 
best  society  you  know,  of  your  own  home,  and  mine?  Is  it 
not  associated,  not  only  with  regretful  things,  the  result  of 
weakness  and  wrong  doing,  but  with  every  pleasant  hour  of 
social  companionship  you  have  known?  Because  wine  was 
used  for  a  little  girl's  downfall  in  the  hands  of  a  human  devil, 


282  THE    CLAW 

is  that  wine  defiled  in  the  hands  of  my  fair  daughter,  your 
mother,  or  the  Christ? 

"There  are  two  uses  of  all  human  good  and  that  good  is  not 
intrinsically  changed  by  the  hand  th?t  uses  it,  whether  that 
hand  be  the  hand  of  the  Master  or  the  hand  of  a  Judas." 

"Yes — that's  true!"  cried  Duncan.  He  had  listened  as  was 
his  wont,  without  interruption,  with  the  utmost  concentra 
tion,  "and  that  is  just  what  I  foresee  in  this  case — that  the 
hand  of  Judas  will  be  the  user,  betraying  us,  the  honest,  the 
decent,  the  humane,  to  the  perpetuation  and  establishment 
of  a  damnable  business — not  the  exploitation  of  the  Good  we 
conceive  our  industry  to  be. 

"Mr.  Cummings,  the  money  of  Blythe  and  of  a  dozen  men 
like  him — the  big  interests — the  interests  fortified  by  all  the 
departments  of  the  liquor  industry,  from  the  lawful  business 
of  the  winery  to  the  illicit  business  of  the  dive,  is  going  into 
this  fight,  is  paying  for  the  expenses  of  this  very  office,  organized 
under  the  name  of  the  Grape  Protective  Association,  to  enlist 
on  the  side  of  the  Wets  those  whom  the  saloons,  working  in 
the  open  could  not  enlist.  You  know  that — I  know  it.  It's 
one  of  the  strategies  of  the  campaign." 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Cummings,  "it  is  one  of  the  strategies,  and 
as  such,  is  like  some  of  the  discreditable  alliances  of  war — a 
necessity  demanded  by  the  crisis.  But  there  are  justifiable 
rewards  to  this  arrangement:  we  are  enlisting  hundreds  of 
thoughtful  men  and  women  who,  when  added  to  our  number, 
will  help  swing  things  for  the  right  use  of  the  good;  men  and 
women  who,  standing  on  this  middle  ground  of  temperance 
and  discouragement  of  abuse,  will  help  to  make  the  fight  against 
dishonorable  business.  They  will  help  to  establish  the  wine 
industry  in  the  eyes  of  the  country  in  the  position  it  should 
occupy,  that  of  a  benefaction,  a  contributor  to  the  happiness 
of  men,  to  regulation  of  the  saloon — if  it  is  seen  fit  to  allow  it 


THE    CLAW  283 

to  remain — to  the  place  of  the  clean  and  decent  institution  it 
should  and  can  be. 

"That's  the  work,  boy,  to  which  you  are  called.  I  thor 
oughly  believe  that — that  you,  of  all  the  young  blood  in  this 
valley  are  fitted  by  your  zeal,  your  ideals  and  your  capacity 
for  service,  to  be  the  leader  in  this  great  movement.  I  don't 
look  for  a  victory  by  the  Drys  this  year — it  doesn't  seem  con 
ceivable.  But  things  are  working  that  way  fast,  and  unless 
the  Champion  comes,  a  man  big  enough,  with  enough  pride 
in  the  industry  to  rid  it  of  the  abuses  that  are  making  it  ene 
mies  and  threatening  its  life,  then  that  industry,  with  all  its 
traditions  and  associations  dear  to  us,  will  be  flung  out  of  the 
state  with  opprobrium,  and  with  material  ruin  to  many. 

"We  need,  we  must  have  your  work  at  the  state  capitol, 
first,  to  help  block  the  prohibitionist  in  their  future  efforts 
against  us,  and  secondly,  as  I  have  said,  to  initiate  the  reform 
measures  within  our  own  circles.  Don't  get  weak-kneed  on 
the  proposition.  Don't  lose  faith  in  your  friends,  the  vast 
majority  of  the  liquor  people.  Don't  desert  those  who,  like 
yourself,  have  put  their  all,  through  trying  years  into  an  in 
vestment  that  the  Drys  with  the  destructive  obsession  of  all 
fanatics  are  bent  on  destroying.  Fight  is  the  word,  and  you're 
a  fighter  if  I  know  one  when  I  see  him!" 

Duncan  sat  long  after  Mr.  Cummings  had  gone,  sunk  in 
the  review  of  the  latter's  argument;  not  his  argument 
alone,  but  the  personality  of  the  man.  His  embodiment 
in  himself  of  the  best  traditions  of  the  liquor  industry,  served 
to  infuse  in  him  new  faith,  revived  confidence.  It  was  true, 
as  Mr.  Cummings  had  said,  he  was,  himself,  given  to  excess 
in  his  judgments — he  was  tenacious  of  his  own  convictions — 
perhaps  erratic.  It  was  difficult  for  him  to  hold  two  objects 
before  his  mental  vision  at  once  and  give  them  impartial  con 
sideration.  It  had  been  so  in  this  case.  The  vice  of  the 


284  THE    CLAW 

liquor  traffic  had  stood  large  in  his  eyes,  obscuring  all  other 
things,  obscuring  the  places  where  liquor  was  drunk  and 
enjoyed  by  men  of  guarded  habits,  the  homes  where  wine  was 
mingled  with  pleasurable  intercourse. 

Heavens!  What  was  he  about  to  do?  To  forget  his  alleg 
iance  to  the  men,  the  homes,  the  society  to  which  he  belonged? 
Could  he  acknowledge  to  the  Enemy  his  people  were  wrong, 
engaged  voluntarily  in  the  work  of  degrading  and  debauch 
ing  their  fellow  men;  assign  criminal  intentions  to  all  the 
temperate  users  of  wine  and  those  that  made  an  honest  living 
by  making  it?  Could  he  class  Mr.  Cummings,  his  father, 
even  Corinne,  whose  slender  arm  had  raised  a  glass  of  good 
wishes  to  him  at  their  parting — class  them,  with  Blythe, 
and  Westmeyer,  and  the  woman?  God  forgive  him!  He  had 
need  to  guard  his  impulses,  to  exercise  caution  in  his  deduc 
tions. 

His  work,  then,  was  cut  out  for  him.  He  reached  for  the 
'phone  and  telephoned  to  Forbes  of  the  Wine  Association  to 
know  if  the  date  had  been  set  for  the  banquet.  The  sacrifice 
that  most  attested  to  his  new  resolve  was  that  he  anticipated 
donning  a  dress  suit  for  the  occasion,  that  must  be  dragged 
from  his  trunk  and  sent  to  the  cleaners  for  pressing.  A  dress 
suit,  he  opined,  was  indispensable  to  a  promising  candidate 
for  the  legislature  on  the  evening  of  his  announcement  speech. 
He  had  worn  the  dress  suit  but  once  before — on  graduation 
night.  His  predilection  for  a  "soft"  shirt  had  won  him  the 
nickname  of  "the  cowboy"  at  Yale. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

Affairs  were  going  famously  with  Norris.  He  had  won  his 
spurs,  he  had  won  a  charming  girl  and  he  had  been  made  an 
esteemed  member  of  the  Riverdale  press  club.  The  affair 
took  place  ?t  a  dinner  in  his  honor — and  that  of  a  visiting 
Eastern  newspaper  man  of  note,  in  the  "Little  Red  Room" 
of  the  St.  George  grill.  Marlinee,  the  following  morning, 
received  hilarious  rumors  of  the  event. 

"Ask  Norris  how  he  got  home  last  night,"  urged  Gordon. 

"Ask  him  what  he  thinks  of  the  intelligence  of  cabbies  when 
a  man  has  misplaced  his  address." 

"Say,  Norris,  which  will  it  be  for  a  bracer,  whisky  straight 
or  a  little  gin  rickey?" 

Norris,  turning  off  rehash  with  nervous  jabs,  colored  and 
flung  over  his  shoulder,  "Forget  it!" 

"Norris  is  young,"  remarked  Gordon,  the  sporting  editor, 
reaching  for  another  sheet  of  copy  which  he  adjusted  with 
care  in  his  roller,  "but  for  one  of  his  age,  precocious.  I  might 
say  devilish  precocious!  Take  last  night,  for  instance,  when 
Berry  put  it  to  him  straight  whether  between  man  and  woman, 
he  considered  Scotch  or  Bourbon  or  rye  the  best." 

His  remarks  were  interrupted  as  he  dodged  a  desk  dictionary 
hurled  by  Norris  after  which  the  latter  fell  with  new  and  in 
creasing  agitation  upon  the  story  of  the  perennial  yard-fence 
war  between  the  Murphys  and  the  McGuires. 

Marlinee  glanced  at  the  boy  and  noted  his  flushed  face, 
and  heavy  eyelids.  She  had  not  liked  the  look  of  the  boy  lately, 
in  the  days  since  his  discovered  greatness.  He  was  paying 
for  his  new  popularity,  she  feared,  paying  for  his  success,  as 
Fessendon,  had  said,  as  she  knew  only  too  well  was  the  absurd 
and  insane  way  of  men  in  the  world — that  ability  in  a  man 


286  THE     CLAW 

must  be  the  sign  for  immediate  attack  on  those  forces  of  strength 
and  manhood  that  make  and  keep  him  able  and  efficient. 
It  was  an  arrangement  that  she  considered  at  all  times  with 
marvel  and  growing  disgust — disgust  with  the  world,  and  with 
men  in  particular.  Her  recent  experiences,  the  glimpses  she 
had  received  of  the  work  of  booze,  contributed  to  her  indigna 
tion  and  she  was  in  no  mood  for  facetiousness  in  the  matter. 

"If  Norris  got  drunk  last  night,  I  think  it's  a  disgrace  and 
if  you  fellows  helped  him  to  get  drunk  you've  fallen  about  ten 
notches  in  my  estimation!"  she  exclaimed. 

The  effect  was  what  they  had  wanted.  It  was  fun  to  "stir 
up"  Marlinee. 

"Drunk — well,  no,"  remarked  Gordon,  judiciously,  "I 
don't  know  as  I'd  put  it  in  quite  such  brutal  terms  as  that, 
but — politely  soused,  let's  say — slightly  incapacitated  in  the 
motor  regions." 

"Drunk,  oh,  no!"  threw  in  Hay  ward.  "His  intellectual 
powers  were  intact — I  might  say,  reanimated,  illuminated, 
scintillant!"  The  boys  roared  and  clapped  their  knees  in 
mirth.  Norris,  his  face  scarlet,  reached  for  his  hat  and  bolted. 
Marlinee  waited  till  the  door  closed  after  him  and  then  ex 
claimed  : 

"Oh,  you  talk  that  way — you — Hay  ward!  You  make  merry, 
all  of  you,  and  think  you've  done  a  fine  and  clever  thing,  getting 
this  boy  drunk,  — soused — stewed — all  the  other  cute  phrases 
you  have  for  your  abominable  work;  this  boy,  younger  by 
six  years  than  any  of  you;  new,  fresh,  with  life  just  opening 
to  him,  and  prospects  any  man  might  covet.  You  think  it 
great  sport,  do  you,  to  start  him  on  the  swift  road  to  loss  of 
all  these  things,  the  road  Wakefield  and  Morton  have  taken — 
just  for  fun — just  for  your  entertainment?  And  you  are  men, 
aren't  you?" 

The  boys  stared  at  her  in  chagrin,  embarrassment,  their 


THE    CLAW  287 

mirth  gone,  and  Gordon  raised  a  word  of  apology,  but  she  waved 
it  aside. 

"I  know  you — so  well!"  she  was  speaking  as  though  to  her 
self.  "Men,  who  germinate  life  and  keep  it  alive  in  the  earth! 
You — who  talk  to  us  women,  flatter  us  as  the  bringers  in  of 
life  and  its  preservers — without  whom  you  would  lack  all 
grace  and  goodness.  Yes — true — a  woman  may  bring  forth 
life,  nourish  and  care  for  it;  sacrifice  and  think  for  it,  while  it's 
yet  in  her  bosom;  bring  it  forth  in  agony;  watch,  tend,  cherish 
through  its  beautiful  babyhood  and  childhood  and  when  she's 
brought  it  to  the  place  of  this  one — this  beautiful  boy — when 
she's  managed  to  keep  him  clean  and  manly  and  undefiled — 
then  you  men  put  your  profane  hand  and  smite  and  spoil  him— 
spoil  her  fruit — her  gift — that  she  has  given  her  woman's  soul 
and  life  for.  That's  what  you  do,  you  men,  and  I  hate  you 
for  it!" 

"Marlinee,  Marlinee!"  It  was  Hay  ward  at  her  side,  his  face 
full  of  concern  and  remorse.  "Don't  say  that!  It's  true — 
every  word  and  awful,  but  we  didn't  mean  it — we  didn't  think. 
Men  don't  think — really!  It's  just  some  brute  something 
in  them  that  pushes  them  to  such  things,  into  making  fools 
and  asses  of  themselves  and  others.  Don't  take  it  so  ser 
iously!" 

"No,  don't  get  sore,  Marlinee!"  abetted  the  other  boys, 
pushing  around  with  regretful  faces.  They  were  alarmed  at 
the  girl's  emotions.  Her  whole  being  seemed  aflame  with 
an  indignation  that  would  consume  her — and  her  words  had 
struck  home  too,  with  truth  that  scorched. 

"Well,  then,"  Marlinees  dropped  into  her  chair  in  weakness 
Her  lips  were  trembling  and  she  feared  the  disgrace  of  tears. 
"Don't  do  it.  For  Heaven's  sake,  don't  do  it!  Take  care  of 
Norris — you  all  love  him,  I  know.  Think  of  his  mother  and 
father  in  their  graves  out  there  at  Cayonsville — and  his 


288  THE     CLAW 

little  Girl!     Help  him  to  keep  straight  and  right  for  her." 

"We  will — trust  us — we  will!"  chorused  the  boys,  in  repent 
ance,  They  fell  on  their  typewriters  again  with  a  vigor  at 
testing  their  relief  and  good  will. 

Fessendon  lounged  into  the  newsroom.  He  appeared  to 
arrive  as  by  the  power  of  attraction  on  each  occasion  when 
the  subject  of  booze  was  foremost,  but  the  newsroom  had 
no  desire  to  open  up  the  subject  again  at  the  present  time. 

"Where's  McWhirter?"  he  asked.  "I've  got  some  dope 
for  him." 

"Out,  just  this  minute,  I'll  take  it,"  said  Gordon  with  eager 
cordiality.  "Want  to  see  him  particularly?  Sit  down." 
Fessendon  sat  down  and  drew  his  hand  over  his  forehead  with 
a  jesture  of  weariness  new  to  him.  He  had  gotten  just  back 
from  a  heavy  lecture  tour  and  the  last  hour  had  been  spent 
on  a  job  the  least  congenial  of  any  of  his  duties,  from  the 
discouragements  met,  that  of  soliciting  funds  for  the  campaign. 
His  territory  was  the  hardest  of  the  state.  In  the  center  of 
•  the  wine  grape  industry — wine  men  and  others  turned  him 
down  alike.  The  banks  that  held  some  men  favorable  to  the 
cause  were  tied  up  effectually  by  the  liquor  interests;  even 
the  churches.  The  Thing  had  some  of  them  and  their  clergy 
tied  hard  and  fast.  It  was  strange  to  Fessendon  how  many 
excuses  men  could  find  for  not  looking  this  problem  full  in 
the  face. 

One  of  his  calls  had  been  on  a  young  clergyman,  a  man  com 
mitted  to  much  the  same  liberal  religious  views  as  Fessendon 
but  who  carried  those  views  farther.  He  was  a  seeker  of  the 
Ideal,  the  Absolute.  How  well  Fessendon  understood  the 
spirit  of  the  man — a  mere  lad.  How  well  he  remembered  his 
own  grave  and  determined  pursuit — it  is  one  that  belongs  to 
youth.  It  is  a  noble  one  and  provides  for  the  finest  philsophy 
the  world  knows,  but  Fessendon  understood  the  doctrine  of 


THE    CLAW  289 

the  Absolute  that,  itself,  holds  error,  and  here  was  a  youth 
with  his  fine,  young  arm  and  his  vigorous,  thoughtful  brain 
and  his  consecrated  heart,  ignoring  the  claims  of  humanity 
while  he  sought  in  his  tomes  for  the  philosophical  place  of 
liquor  prohibition  in  the  world's  history. 

It  had  come  too  soon— that  was  what  the  logic  of  the  tomes 
said — before  men  were  ready  for  it — educated  to  it.  The 
great  transformations  in  the  mind  and  consciences  of  the 
world  are  all  biological  and  subject  to  natural  law.  Prohibi 
tion  would  break  into  that  law — disturb  the  fine  workings  of 
logical  cause  and  effect.  Prohibition  would  mean  the  invoking 
of  a  moral  cataclysm — a  thing  abnormal  and  deterrent  to  the 
eventual  object. 

Fessendon  listened  to  the  lad,  wording  the  age-old  doctrine 
of  delay — the  avoidance  of  that  interruption  of  the  composed 
order  of  things  so  grateful  to  the  philosophic  mind.  Fessen 
don  understood  that,  too,  and  in  no  critical  way.  He  had 
been  a  philosopher  in  his  day — was  now — but  he  had  learned 
many  things  besides.  He  took  time  now  from  his  pressing 
duties  to  tell  the  boy  about  it.  He  was  fond  of  him  and  he 
needed  him  for  his  work. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "you  are  right.  Nature  works  by  laws  of 
her  own  which  cannot  be  frustrated  and  every  thing  that 
happens  is  normal — even  the  'abnormal'  things  of  life.  They 
are  all  within  the  law — the  part  of  the  law  we  don't  happen 
to  see.  But  you  talk  of  prohibition  as  something  outside  that 
law  because  it's  revolutionary,  sudden — violent,  perhaps. 
Doesn't  Nature  allow  for  that  sort  of  thing  in  her  progress? 
Land  areas  are  not  made  by  erosion  of  the  hills,  alone,  a  process 
we  may  watch  and  understand.  A  great  upheaval  occurs, 
and  a  continent  is  made  in  a  day.  Wars — revolutions — both 
are  historical  cataclysms,  but  the  world  leaped  ahead  after 
the  Reign  of  Terror  as  never  before.  The  Christ  is  rejected 


200  THE    CLAW 

as  a  Savior  by  some  men  because  he  came  out  of  time,  out  of 
the  conceived  order  of  evolution  for  a  perfect  man,  yet  he  is 
saving  men  and  women  daily  to  near  perfection. 

"Oh,  my  boy!  You  are  young.  You  are  strong  and  the 
world  is  before  you.  Your  opportunity  is  here — today — now\ 
Whatever  you  can  accomplish  of  good  toward  your  fellow  man 
is  within  the  law  of  God  and  Nature  else  it  could  never  be 
accomplished. 

"Get  busy — there  are  men  and  women  and  little  children 
by  the  hundreds  and  thousands  in  the  world  today  in  whom 
the  likeness  of  God  is  being  destroyed  by  this  curse — drink. 
Do  we  need  philosophy,  or  science,  or  even  religion  to  tell  us 
it  should  be  stopped?  How  many  more  men  and  women 
do  we  want  to  see  take  the  road  of  those  we  know  of  every  day, 
while  we  are  trying  to  discover  if  the  time  is  ripe  for  the  banish 
ment  of  this  thing? 

"Greed — greed  alone  keeps  it  established.  Will  you  be  a 
partner  to  it — will  you  give  your  young  new  strength  to  that 
which  induces  decay  and  death?  My  boy,  forget  for  the 
time  the  doctrine  of  philosophic  consistency  and  get  into  the 
fight." 

His  last  encounter  had  been  with  the  pastor  of  one  of  the 
smart  churches  of  the  city.  He  was  shown  into  a  richly  fur 
nished  study.  The  entire  air  and  furnishings  of  the  room  spoke 
of  worldiness,  luxury  and  self  indulgence.  Fessendon  knew 
the  man's  church  to  be  possessed  of  the  same  qualities,  one 
which,  professing  to  embody  the  spirit  and  teachings  of  Christ, 
was  actuated  in  the  motives  of  its  people  by  a  policy  of  com 
promise  with  the  worldly  and  the  material,  the  fruits  of  which 
were  far  from  those  of  the  life  and  service  of  the  Master.  He 
expected  nothing  from  Dr.  Burrington.  The  call  was  merely 
perfunctory  and  in  the  line  of  his  routine  activities  for  the 


THE    CLAW  291 

Dry  campaign.  He  made  short  work  of  it,  stating  his  errand 
briefly. 

"I  see,"  began  Dr.  Burrington.  Well — Ahem!  Keally 
my  dear  Fessendon,  I  might  make  a  point  never  to  bring  sub 
jects  of  local  agitation  into  the  pulpit — to  introduce  the  con 
crete.  I  believe  that  the  clergyman  serves  the  best  purpose  of 
his  calling  who  presents  the  Gospel  in  its  broadest  and 
most  comprehensive  sense  and  leaves  the  individual  to  make 
the  deductions — the  application  to  conduct  and  choice." 

"Yes,"  agreed  Fessendon,  "I  see!"  It  does  save  a  lot  of 
thought  and  gives  the  individual  a  chance  to  do  as  he  darn 
pleases."  The  clergyman  looked  shocked,  but  he  continued: 

"The  teachings  of  the  Master  were  given  for  all  time  and 
all  men  and  circumstances.  The  man  or  woman  who  adopts 
the  fundamental  principles  of  Christianity  is  certain  to  regu 
late  his  life  and  choices  in  consistence  there  with." 

"Yes,"  said  Fessendon,  "I've  noticed.  'In  God  We  Trust' 
was  the  motto  in  the  house  of  Billy  Blyther  and  his  wife,  the 
folks  the  police  pinched  last  week  for  shop-lifting."  The 
clergyman  looked  at  Fessendon  with  an  expression  of  some 
annoyance  but  he  was  a  man  of  large  charity  and  one  practised 
in  accomodating  himself  to  others. 

"No,"  he  concluded  in  a  'kind — but — firm'  manner.  "I'm 
sorry  to  disappoint  you,  but  I  have  promised  myself  not  to 
introduce  into  my  church  anything  that  will  tend  to  cause 
division  or  the  disturbance  of  the  very  delightful  spirit  of  har 
mony  and  fellowship  that  now  prevails." 

"You  haven't  disappointed  me  in  the  least,  Doctor,  I  assure 
you,"  answered  Fessendon,  in  the  most  cordial  of  tones  as 
he  rose  from  his  chair.  "I  really  wasn't  expecting  any  assist 
ance  of  any  sort  from  you.  I  know  that  the  directing  forces 
of  your  church  are  men  immediately  associated  with  the 
liquor  interests  and  I  didn't  expect  you  to  be  a  big  enough  man 


292  THE     CLAW 

to  break  with  those  forces.  I  hope,"  he  added  fervently, 
taking  the  Doctor's  hand  in  a  grip  that  made  the  latter  wince, 
"I  surely  hope,  Doctor,  that  you'll  get  your  accustomed  raise!" 

Fessendon  was  tired,  awfully  tired,  physically,  but  there 
was  no  end  of  fight  in  him  yet.  That  was  the  way  he  came  to 
land,  now,  on  Max  Burgess,  who,  inadvertantly  and  unfortun 
ately,  lounged  into  the  Journal  office  as  Fessendon  sat  wait 
ing  for  McWhirter. 

Burgess  was  a  type  of  man  grown  especially  in  the  west — 
the  professional  booster — one  who  lives  on  other  men's  en 
thusiasms.  Burgess  lived  in  a  blatant  atmosphere  of  boost. 
The  eloquent  phraseology  of  that  virtue  was  at  his  tongue's 
end.  His  services  were  valuable  but  a  little  forced.  The 
business  man,  short  in  cash,  who  observed  Burgess'  breezy 
bulk  approaching  was  wont  to  reach  for  his  hat  and  conceive 
a  sudden  engagement.  Moral  courage  was  not  equal  to  the 
refusing  of  a  subscription  and  risking  the  eloquent  anathemas 
with  which  Burgess  was  wont  to  favor  the  man  who  refused 
to  "boost."  Fessendon  himself  precipitated  the  matter.  He 
found  Burgess  diverting. 

"Well,  what  have  you  got  on  your  mind  today?"  He  asked 
as  Burgess  breezed  in,  and  clapped  him  on  the  back  with 
large  geniality. 

"Square  paving— Park  Square  paving!  We  want  to  get 
that  square  paved  and  start  in  on  those  municipal  dances  the 
other  towns  are  giving  weekly  to  draw  the  Saturday  night 
trade.  Come  now — come  right  through,  Scott-Browne! 
I  know  you're  public  spirited,  and  this  is  going  to  mean  more 
for  the  merchants  of  this  town  than  any  proposition  that's 
been  put  up  here  for  the  past  five  years.  Come  on,  I  tell  you!" 
Thus  quoth  Burgess,  warming  up  in  true  booster  style.  Fes 
sendon  was  a  man  and  as  said  before  no  man  could  risk  Burgess' 
wordy  opprobrium.  Besides  Fessendon  had  an  idea.  He 


THE     CLAW  293 

reluctantly  handed  over  a  fifty  cent  piece — fifty  cent  pieces 
were  not  very  plentiful  those  days  with  Fessendon.  Burgess 
pocketed  it  with  effusiveness  and  turned  to  another  victim. 

"Here/'  called  Fessendon,  "Wait!  Suppose  you  subscribe 
now  to  my  enterprise.  Suppose  you  put  down  your  subscrip 
tion  to  the  California  Dry  campaign." 

"California  Dry!"  Burgess  turned  and  eyed  Fessendon  up 
and  down  contemptuously. 

"Say — what  you  giving  us?  When  you  talk  to  me,  talk 
about  d  live  proposition!" 

"'Live  proposition!''  Fessendon  was  on  his  feet  on  the 
instant.  He  had  been  likened  in  his  lean  indolence  to  a 
sleeping  hound.  His  movement  now,  was  like  one — like  a 
wolf-hound  in  fierceness  and  attack.  The  boys  involuntar 
ily  pushed  between  the  two,  but  Fessendon  had  no  use  for 
physical  weapons — he  had  a  better. 

"  'Live  proposition!'  You  talk  of  a  'live'  proposition,  and 
thrust  your  petty  plea  for  'a  pavement  into  my  face.  You 
think  you  are  the  only  men — the  men  that  handle  the  dollars — 
other  men's  dollars.  A  'live'  proposition!  Well,  is  there 
anything  liv-er  than  that  that  deals  with  men  and  women  and 
little  children,  with  human  breath  in  them?" 

"A  'live'  proposition!  Is  there  anything  liv-er  than  a  pro 
position  looking  to  conserving  the  strength  and  efficiency  of 
men?  What  builds  highways  and  railroads  and  conceives  of 
factories  and  business?  The  brains  within  them.  The  really 
live  thing  there — their  souls.  And  my  proposition  deals  with 
souls  \ 

And  who  conceives  and  brings  forth  the  men  who  do  these 
things.  Women — mothers.  I'm  talking  about  Theml  Is 
there  anything  liv-er  than  that?  WTho's  going  to  keep  the  work 
going — who's  going  to  do  the  boosting  and  the  building  of  the 
country  after  you're  sealed  up  in  your  fine  mausoleum  out 


294  THE    CLAW 

there  in  the  cemetery?  The  children,  the  children  bom  and 
unborn  today.  I'm  talking  about  them,  about  them  and  their 
welfare.  I'm  boosting — not  for  a  dancing  pavement,  or  a 
highway,  or  a  stocking  factory,  or  a  municipal  market.  I'm 
boosting  for  a  town  where  these  children  can  grow  up  with 
clean  minds  and  clear  eyes  and  strong  and  efficient  brains  and 
a  degree  of  material  comfort ;  a  place  where  no  men  will  prey  on 
them  if  they  happen  to  be  a  little  weaker  than  their  fellows. 
Isn't  this  a  'live'  proposition?  Well,  I  wonder! 

"Yet,  you  laugh  at  these  things — you  who  give  a  dozen  pages 
in  your  booster  pamphlets  to  the  churches  of  the  town  and 
fail  to  mention  the  great  and  prosperous  saloon  business  that 
is  netting  the  city  $5,000  annually.  Why  do  you  mention 
the  one  and  not  the  other?  Because  you  are  cowards.  You 
fill  your  pockets  with  the  returns  of  the  one — the  thing  you 
know  hurts  your  town  and  the  people  in  it,  and  the  thing  you 
hav'n't  the  face  to  boost  for — and  you  refuse  support  and  sym 
pathy  to  the  other.  Oh  I  know  you,  Max  Burgess,  you  and 
your  kind!  You  sit  in  your  clubs  over  your  cocktails  and  cigars, 
secure  in  your  damnable  conceit.  You  call  yourselves  the 
rational — the  Fit,  and  we  who  give  our  time  and  energy  to 
these  other  things — the  men  whose  business  is  with  the  things 
of  morality  and  religion — you  call  us  fanatics — cranks — crea- 
'tures  of  vapid  brain.  Fools!  Not  to  know  that  if  you  are 
Fit  it  is  because  of  borrowed  virtues — the  virtues  taught  by 
the  teachers  and  the  preachers.  You  live  by  the  benefits  of 
other  men.  Even  your  egotism  is  covered  by  the  Christian 
charity  of  your  fellows! 

"And  the  dreamers,  those  you  despise,  they  have  been  the 
guardians  of  men's  progress  from  the  beast  upward  through 
all  ages.  Stomach  and  loins,  stomach  and  loins,  and  the  ape 
forever  grins  over  the  shoulder  of  the  man!  It  is  the  preacher 
and  the  seer  that  have  held  him  to  the  path  and  kept  alive  in 


THE    CLAW  295 

him  the  consciousness  of  something  beyond — the  sense  of  the 
farther  goal. 

"Yet  you  deprecate  these  forces.  You  call  meetings  to 
talk  street  lighting  and  new  boulevards  and  publicity  campaigns 
and  you  term  the  man  who  fails  to  come  through  with  his 
enthusiasm  and  cash,  'narrow  guage',  the  'little  man',  while 
you  fail  utterly  and  wholly,  to  sense  the  real  things,  the  things 
that  come  first — character,  temperance,  industry,  efficiency 
of  service — the  things  that  most  serve  the  material  end. 
And  to  the  movements  and  institutions  in  your  town  that 
foster  these  things,  you  contribute  not  a  dollar,  or  an  hour  of 
your  attention  and  co-operation! 

"This  is  your  rationality,  your  enterprise,  the  large  spirit 
of  citizenship  you  men  boast!"  His  words  came  like  whip 
strokes — Burgess  half  rose  from  his  chair —  "In  God's 
name,  who  is  the  narrow  guage',  the  little  man' — Faugh!" 
Fessenden  turned  on  his  heel  "I  don't  understand  your 
kind  of  intelligence." 


CHAPTER    XXXV 

Duncan  awaited  the  banquet  of  the  wine  men  with  some 
trepidation.  They  would  expect  a  speech  from  him.  In 
fact,  his  address  announcing  his  candidacy  would  lead  off 
the  after  dinner  speeches.  The  sense  of  the  occasion  was  the 
promotion  of  the  wine  industry  and  it  was  appropriate  that 
it  should  open  with  the  name  of  the  man  who  should  lead 
the  wine  interests  in  their  future  efforts  to  secure  legislation 
favorable  to  themselves  and  discouraging  to  their  opponents. 

Duncan  was  no  speaker,  he  told  himself.  However,  he  had 
never  failed  to  come  through  with  something,  when  called  on 
unexpectedly  or  appointed  to  public  appearance  during  his 
college  course.  But  to  prepare  and  deliver  a  speech  in  his  own 
interests!  He  could  never  remember  having  done  anything 
strictly  in  his  own  interests  in  his  life.  Left  alone  he  would 
never  be  seeking  this  office,  now.  A  seat  in  the  legislature 
was  a  thing  to  be  coveted  as  a  creditable  accomplishment  for 
a  member  of  his  family,  but  to  "do  politics,"  to  button-hole 
this  man  and  set  up  the  drinks  for  that  with  a  view  to  harvest 
ing  votes  was  impossible  for  him.  If,  however,  by  sacrificing 
his  own  feelings  of  reticence  and  modesty  he  could  put  through 
a  needed  work  that  would  be  of  service  to  his  friends  and  the 
wine  industry,  he  was  willing  to  pocket  his  own  preferences, 
as  he  had  done  on  so  many  other  occasions,  and  go  to  it. 

He  did  not  intend  to  waste  his  time  and  the  time  of  his  em 
ployers  thinking  up  fancy  phrases  for  a  long  and  pyrotechnic 
address,  however.  He  would  merely  announce  his  candidacy, 
together  with  his  intentions  to  serve  his  constituents,  if  elected, 
with  conscientiousness  and  industry,  and  would  close  with 
appreciation  for  the  confidence  placed  in  him  by  the  wine 
men  that  had  inspired  their  calling  for  him  as  their  represen- 


THE    CLAW  297 

tative.  That  would  be  a  type  of  all  his  campaign  speeches. 
Strictly  business — no  time  wasted,  no  frills! 

But,  unenthusiastic  as  had  been  his  contemplation  of  the 
affair  and  his  part  in  it,  the  occasion  itself  provided  his  inspira 
tion.  No,  perhaps  it  was  his  mother  who  suggested  the  real 
inspiration.  Jeanie,  never  demonstrative,  whose  reticence 
and  plodding  habits  had  increased  during  Duncan's  absence, 
from  utter  lack  of  companionship  and  diversion,  during  the 
weeks  since  his  return,  had  known  a  strange  revival.  In  the 
regard  of  none  had  he  come  to  hold  a  more  changed  place  than 
in  the  eyes  of  his  mother.  Strange  had  been  their  relations 
always;  rather  that  of  partners  than  of  mother  and  son. 

If  Duncan  had  been  aware  of  a  lack  in  his  father's  affections, 
he  had  also  known  the  same  in  regard  to  his  mother.  All  of 
Jeanie's  pride  had  been  wrapped  up  in  Douglas.  Douglas 
was  his  father's  son,  the  reflection  of  that  brilliancy  and  grace 
that  had  surprised,  and  to  speak  accurately,  eclipsed  her  life. 
Her  ambitions  had  been  centered  in  Douglas.  The  part  of 
the  younger  son,  the  lad  of  ordinary  parts,  was  to  serve  the 
boy  of  talents,  as  her's  had  been  to  devote  her  poor  gifts  to 
the  father.  She  felt  the  incongruity  of  elevating  Duncan  to 
Douglas'  place  in  her  husband's  ambitions,  with  almost  the 
keenness  of  Duncan  himself  and,  therefore,  none  of  the  sweet 
flattery  with  which  a  mother  ordinarily  surrounds  her  child, 
that  lulls  his  own  suggestions  of  inefficiency  and  inspires  him 
with  self-confidence  and  the  power  to  accomplish,  was  Duncan's, 
from  his  mother. 

What  this  lack  meant  to  the  backward,  self-deprecative 
boy,  none  can  tell,  nor  did  he  realize.  Fortunately,  that  lack 
had  boon  supplied  in  part  by  another.  Marlinee,  her  confidence, 
her  faith  in  him,  her  letter  abounding  in  optimism  and  en 
couragement  took  the  place  of  the  letter  from  home  that  has 
such  potential  part  in  the  life  of  most  students.  Marlinee 


298  THE     CLAW 

without  knowing  it — without  Duncan  or  Jeanie  knowing  it — 
made  possible  the  self-confidence  that,  by  a  slow  development, 
at  last  met  Duncan's  unfolding  powers  and  wrought,  in  the 
last  year  or  two  of  his  college  course,  the  strength  and  vigor 
of  his  new  personailty.  It  was  Marlinee  who  gave  to  Jennie 
the  joy  she  knew  when  she  greeted  Duncan  on  his  return. 

Jeanie  had  never  told  him  of  the  joy;  it  was  a  secret  that 
she  had  hugged  to  herself  in  the  strange  selfishness  with  which 
people  keep  the  dear  things  about  others  to  themselves.  Jeanie's 
secret  was  this:  Duncan,  returned,  was  his  father's  son. 

It  seemed  a  miracle,  a  thing  she  could  not  have  dared  pray 
for,  but  it  was  true.  The  moment  he  strode  up  the  steps, 
he  was  Cameron  come  back;  she  saw  it  in  every  little  detail  of 
his  new  personailty:  his  quick,  decisive  ways,  his  swift  obser 
vations  and  conclusions,  his  new  readiness  of  speech,  his  new 
impelling  masterfulness. 

For  this  change,  the  rumors  concerning  Duncan  on  the  lips 
of  his  friends  had  prepared  her  somewhat.  Complacency 
had  grown  at  every  report  of  his  Washington  success  and  when 
the  gossip  reached  her  seclusion  that  Duncan  was  being  named 
for  a  state  office  her  pride  knew  no  bounds.  New  honors 
unbelievable  followed :  Duncan  was  asked  to  take  a  partnership 
with  Blythe.  Duncan  was  engaged  to  the  daughter  of  one  of 
the  wealthiest  men  in  the  valley  and  the  most  exclusive. 
As  mother  of  such  a  personage  Jeanie  was  like  to  be  overwhelmed 
by  her  honors. 

And  Duncan  never  knew.  It  gave  him  surprise  and  grief 
that  Jeanie  should  have  felt  such  disappointment  when  he 
announced  at  last,  that  he  could  not  take  up  with  Blythe's 
offer.  She  had  seemed  somewhat  more  than  usually  interested, 
to  be  sure,  when  he  first  consulted  her  about  the  matter  and 
she  had  urged  him  to  go  into  it,  but  he  was  not  prepared  for 
her  apparent  concern  when  he  abandoned  the  idea. 


THE    CLAW  299 

"But,  mother,  you  wouldn't  have  me  accept  Blythe's  offer, 
would  you,  under  the  circumstances?" 

"No,  no,  I  canna  say  I  wud,"  she  agreed,  reluctantly,  "but 
I'm  sair  grieved  aboot  it.  Oh,  no— not  for  mysel'— dinna 
think  it — but  frae  you." 

Tonight,  as  he  was  dressing,  she  came  to  his  door  and  asked 
with  a  concern  unusual,  if  there  was  anything  she  could  do. 
She  had  laid  out  his  clothes  for  him,  smoothing  with  much 
awe  the  folds  of  the  dress  suit — Duncan's  dress  suit!  It  was 
a  badge  of  his  transformation.  She  looked  at  him  as  he  said 
good-bye — something,  new,  worshipful  and  pathetic  in  her 
eyes,  that  moved  him: 

"Well,  mother,  wish  me  success  for  my  speech."  It  was 
then  her  voice  broke  and  in  unaccustomed  tenderness,  she 
reached  up  and  kissed  him. 

"Laddie,  ye  look  fair  like  yir  father!  How  proud  he  wud 
be  o'  ye  th'  nicht."  Duncan's  vision  clouded  and  he  went 
down  the  steps  to  his  machine,  unseeing.  He  had  never 
dreamed  of  such  a  tribute. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

It  had  been  many  years  since  Duncan  had  seen  so  many 
of  his  father's  friends  assembled  in  one  body.  It  reminded 
him  of  the  halcyon  clays  of  La  Mesa  vineyard.  Cameron 
himself  should  have  been  there  at  the  head  of  the  table,  master 
of  ceremonies — Cameron  with  his  fine,  exceptional  presence 
that  impressed  every  one,  even  the  man  casually  met;  Cameron 
with  his  brilliant  resources,  his  versatility,  his  eloquence,  his 
gifts  of  imagery  and  wit  that  sprang  to  his  need  on  the  inspira 
tion  of  the  moment.  It  was  true,  as  his  mother  had  said:  what 
would  this  occasion  not  have  meant  to  his  father,  the  occasion 
when  his  son  would  be  honored  by  the  greatest  gift  in  the 
power  of  his  father's  friends,  the  leadership  of  their 
cause.  A  great  desire  arose  in  him  to  do  his  father  credit  on 
this  rare  night;  to  have  men  say  of  him  as  of  his  brother  on 
that  other  occasion  so  long  ago:  "This  is  his  father's  son!" 

He  wished  that  he  had  prepared  his  speech  more  carefully, 
and  with  more  elaboration.  Now,  in  this  presence,  with  the 
emotions  impelled  by  his  mother's  words,  the  occasion  took 
meaning — moment.  Early  memories  stirred  him,  revived  in 
him  the  old  days,  with  their  fine  visions  and  expectations. 
He  recalled  the  early  struggles  of  the  growers,  their  disappoint 
ing  experiences  and  their  yet  unfufillled  hopes  for  the  success 
of  the  industry ;  the  hopes  built  in  the  future — in  his  own  efforts 
in  their  behalf.  Great  thoughts  surged  in  him  and  with  them 
almost  but  not  quite,  the  keen  terms,  the  timely  phrases  with 
which  to  catch  and  speak  them.  Ah — if  just  this  once,  his 
father's  muse  would  breathe  in  him  the  godlike  power  to  speak 
his  full  heart! 

Another  muse  loosed  his  tongue.  The  banquet  was  long. 
Duncan  at  no  time  had  use  for  banquets.  He  was  temperate 


THE    CLAW  301 

in  his  inclinations  and  he  resented  at  all  times  the  imposing 
of  gastronomic  feats  in  the  name  of  good  fellowship.  Then, 
too,  such  occasions  invariably  entailed  the  drinking  of  too  much 
wine.  Unfortunately,  he  had  had  more  than  he  wanted, 
already.  His  friends  knew  that  his  candidacy  would  be  the 
announcement  of  the  evening  and  throughout  the  day  he  had, 
from  custom's  sake,  absurd  as  he  acknowledged  it,  set  up 
the  drinks  many  times,  and  received  like  courtesy  at  the  hands 
of  his  numerous  business  friends.  He  had  remembered,  at 
each  round  that  he  should  be  saving  all  his  fortitude  in  that 
matter  till  night — the  occasion  would  tax  his  best  control. 

Already  he  began  to  feel  the  effect  of  his  reluctant  indulgence 
in  the  first  up  flickering  of  the  lights  in  the  back  of  his  brain; 
the  first  illumination  of  the  mind  that  tells  the  normal  man 
that  abnormal  exhilaration  is  moving  in  his  veins  and  that  it 
is  time  to  call  a  halt.  It  was  as.  far  toward  excess  as  he  had 
ever  gone — this  stage — experienced  but  a  few  times  before  and 
always  from  such  inadvertent  cause. 

But,  unfortunately,  he  was  not  the  first  speaker.  A  senator 
and  one  or  two  other  notables  from  abroad  were  present.  A 
round  of  toasts  was  called,  for  these.  He  had  left  his  glass 
untouched  during  the  courses,  but  there  was  no  avoiding  re 
sponse  to  this  call.  He  drank  with  the  rest,  cursing  his  ill 
luck.  Well,  he  came  next,  at  any  rate,  and  ten  minutes  would 
put  his  part  through.  He  could  excuse  himself  on  some  pre 
text,  afterward,  if  the  thing  growing  bigger  and  more  riotous 
in  his  brain  got  beyond  his  control. 

Outwardly,  he  was  absolutely  calm.  He  looked  at  the  hand 
turning  with  seeming  negligence  the  slender  goblet  and  there 
was  not  a  quiver  in  it.  His  voice  was  firm  and  controlled,  and 
the  man  opposite  him,  a  new  comer  who  had  met  Duncan  for 
the  first  time  that  night,  told  himself,  as  he  glanced  at  the  strong, 
well-contained  figure,  the  quiet,  clean-cut  face  with  its  wide 


302  THE    CLAW 

brow,  its  frank  eyes  and  firm  chin,  that  here  was  a  young  fellow 
in  all  ways  fitted  to  be  the  leader  needed  at  this  crisis. 

Duncan's  name  was  called.  He  heard  it  pronounced  a 
long  way  off,  from  the  master  of  ceremonies  who  had  receded 
into  a  vast  perspective.  His  heart  bounded  up  as  though 
it  were  trying  to  break  from  his  body.  The  blood  beat  in 
his  ears.  There  was  absolutely  nothing  in  his  head  at  the 
moment  but  the  bobbing  lights  of  his  brain.  By  sheer  im 
pulse  he  reached  and  drank  off  with  one  swallow  the  wine 
with  which  the  waiter  had  just  filled  the  glass  in  his  hand. 

He  rose  and  looked  down  the  far  vista  of  scintillating  lights 
and  gleaming  shirt  fronts,  and,  in  that  moment,  absolute 
composure  returned.  He  began  speaking  calmly,  slowly. 
His  words  were  not  those  of  the  speech  he  had  conceived,  but 
another,  a  wholly  different  one.  Words,  phrases,  came  to 
his  lips  as  he  needed  them,  almost  before  the  thought  was 
formed.  The  thoughts  were  those  he  had  conceived  in  the 
early  evening — the  inspiration  of  his  mother's  words,  his 
father's  remembered  presence,  «•  nd  the  thrill  of  this  assemblage 
before  him. 

His  speech  was  a  perfect  medium.  It  flowed  like  a  current 
bearing  freightage,  like  a  thread  under  the  needle  weaving 
a  perfect  pattern;  like  the  music  record  turned  in  a  pianola; 
his  part — merely  mechanical— the  medium  over  which  it  passed. 

He  spoke  of  the  early  days  of  the  valley,  of  the  yellow  valley 
as  he  remembered  it,  first,  a  child  of  five  or  six.  He  spoke  of 
the  coming  of  the  pioneers — his  father,  the  men  gathered  there 
about  this  board;  of  the  brilliant  promise  of  the  golden  land, 
of  their  fine  plans  arid  hopes,  of  the  great  vineyard  common 
wealth  growing  swiftly  under  their  hands;  the  land  that  once 
barren,  presently  smiled  with  green  vineyards,  acres  and  acres, 
as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach,  vineyard  row  after  vineyard  row, 


THE    CLAW  303 

wheeling  into  vision  as  the  trains  of  the  new  railroads  brought 
the  people  flocking  to  the  country. 

He  spoke  of  the  struggles  of  the  growers;  of  conditions  that 
worked  hardship;  of  the  great_hand  to  hand  struggle  of  the 
shipping  agencies  in  their  throat  cutting  competition,  of  the 
present  armistice  of  the  interests  and  the  realization  of  the 
contending  forces  that  the  life  of  the  industry  lay  only  in  co 
operation. 

He  pictured  the  enemies  of  the  wine  business — the  prohi 
bitionists — with  their  slanderous  accusations  of  growers  and 
wine  makers,  and  their  campaign  designed  against  the  existence 
of  the  liquor  business.  His  hearers  waited  on  his  words  breath 
lessly. 

And  here  he  made  sudden  digression  and  in  rising  earnestness 
pictured  the  evils  within  the  business  that  furnished  argument 
for  the  enemy.  He  left  no  unworthy  feature  untouched — law 
lessness,  carousal,  the  despoiling  of  homes  by  the  selling  to 
men  given  to  excess,  the  corruption  of  justice,  gambling, 
immorality.  His  words  stung.  He  spoke  in  fierce  arraign 
ment  of  men  in  high  places  who  combined  with  honest  business, 
the  vicious. 

He  turned  suddenly,  with  apology  for  introducing 
the  personal,  with  emotion  expressing  his  deep  apprecia 
tion  to  his  friends,  for  their  sympathy  and  loyalty  in  the  recent 
attack  upon  himself.  He  accepted  that  loyalty,  he  added, 
not  wholly  as  a  tribute  to  himself,  but  more  as  the  generosity 
of  men  to  his  father's  son. 

V  He  spoke  of  his  father  in  voice  of  thrilling  tenderness ;  recalled 
the  old  days ;  with  happy  phrase  and  ingenious  imagery  invoked 
the  presence  of  the  elder  Douglas.  He  was  there  at  that  very 
table  in  the  midst  of  his  friends  tonight — his  old  friends! 
His  presence  with  its  grace  and  charm  was  beside  them,  his 
voice  with  the  old  cordial  ring  was  in  their  ears — his  face  with 


304  THE     CLAW 

its  irresistible  smile  sunned  them.  They  bent  forward  across 
the  table,  with  eager  faces,  as  though  the  thing  were  reality; 
with  eyes  filled  with  old  loyalty,  while  sighs,  and  a  man's  deep 
sob  broke  on  the  silence  of  the  speaker's  periods.  They  had 
loved  Cameron. 

He  spoke  of  his  brother,  and,  suddenly,  the  boy  Douglas 
was  there  in  their  midst,  in  the  person  of  the  other  boy,  Duncan, 
the  same  flashing  eye,  the  hair  swept  back  proudly  from  the 
forehead,  the  cheeks  spotted  with  regal  color. 

He  closed  suddenly  and  briefly,  shaken  by  his  own  emotions: 
in  the  name  of  that  beloved  father  and  perished  brother;  in 
the  name  of  the  new  loyalty  he  owed  his  father's  friends,  in 
the  name  of  the  great  and  noble  industry  they  all  had  labored 
to  foster  he  pledged  his  heart  and  hand's  best  service. 

Duncan  took  his  seat.  It  hid  been  a  great  speech.  It 
took  his  hearers  long  to  get  their  breath.  A  full  minute  was 
ticked  off  audibly  by  the  great  clock  on  the  wall  before  the 
applause  burst  forth — such  applause  as  had  not  been  raised 
there  before.  Men  reached  to  grip  Duncan's  hands;  men  sprang 
from  their  seats  with  their  congratulations,  and  the  toast 
was  raised  high  and  clamorously. 

"His  father,  from  the  ground  up!  " 

"Why  as  he  spoke  I  lost  him  and  Cameron  was  there,"  said 
one. 

"His  father,  with  the  same  prod  for  his  imagination!"  whis 
pered  another  of  the  diners,  meaningly.  "Well,  some  men 
have  to  have  that.  It  accomplishes  the  needed  inhibition — 
knocks  out  self-consciousness  and  loosens  up  eloquence." 

"Yes?"  answered  the  man  at  his  side.  It  was  Doctor  Elliot 
His  eyes  followed  his  companions  glance  with  a  concern  effect 
ively  covered  by  his  professional  command.  Duncan  was 
drooping  forward  in  his  chair,  his  elbows  on  the  table,  one  hand 
raised  to  the  waiter  for  another  glass.  The  light  and  glow  had 


THE    CLAW  305 

gone  out  of  him.  He  smiled  mechanically  at  the  men  crowding 
about  him.  He  looked  like  a  man  exhausted. 

He  sat  through  the  seemingly  endless  address  of  the  next 
speaker.  Then  he  turned  to  the  men  at  either  side  and  excus 
ing  himself  started  to  leave  the  table.  The  room  was  sway 
ing  dizzily  about  him,  he  groped  for  the  backs  of  the  chairs 
to  guide  his  steps  and  a  waiter  glided  noiselessly  and  subser 
viently  to  his  side  and  offered  him  his  arm.  At  that  moment 
his  name  was  called  in  the  stentorian  voice  of  a  hotel  page. 

"Duncan  Cameron  is  wanted  at  once  at  La  Mesa  vineyard! 
Is  Doctor  Elliot  here?  He  is  also  wanted,  instantly!" 

The  sound  passed  through  Duncan  like  an  electric  shock. 
His  first  thought  was  of  his  mother,  and  he  was  instantly  sober. 
He  plunged  out  into  the  lobby  into  the  crowd  gathered  there 
about  a  boy  from  the  vineyard,  his  chauffeur.  The  latter, 
hat  less  and  breathless,  with  white  face,  was  leaning  against 
the  desk.  He  started  at  Duncan's  appearance  and  swallowed, 
unable  to  speak.  Duncan  shook  him  fiercely: 

"What  is  it?" 

"Oh — something  awful — Morton — his  wife — come  quick!" 
With  a  cry  Duncan  darted  past  him  to  the  waiting  machine, 
the  Doctor  at  his  heels.  The  boy  sprang  in  after,  but 
Duncan  was  at  the  wheel ;  he  threw  in  the  clutch  and  the  machine 
sprang  forward  with  a  bound. 


CHAPTER    XXXVII 

Affairs  with  Morton  had  been  growing  rapidly  worse  since 
his  discharge.  The  notoriety  lent  him  by  Antonio's  trial  had 
worked  him  hardship.  He  had  lost  his  standing  with  his  friends 
of  the  business  world.  Even  those  who  would  have  condoned 
infraction  of  the  law  that  made  it  illegal  to  buy  wine  from  the 
wineries  for  retail  in  dry  territories,  found  it  to  their  interests 
to  treat  with  coolness  the  offender,  now  that  his  offense  had 
been  given  unpleasant  publicity.  There  was  no  work  to  be 
found  by  Morton  around  Riverdale.  His  pride  would  not 
allow  him  to  descend  from  the  position  of  manager  of  one  of 
the  largest  vineyards  of  the  state,  and  an  enviable  business 
standing  to  that  of  mere  day  laborer. 

He  went  to  Lodi,  to  Stockton,  into  the  Sacramento  valley, 
looking  for  a  managership,  or  clerkship,  but  all  such  positions 
were  filled  and  the  waiting  list  overcrowded.  Duncan's 
grim  justice  would  not  permit  him  to  write  Morton  a  recom 
mendation.  For  Elsie's  sake,  however,  he  went  to  the  stores 
and  secured  an  extension  of  credit  with  promise  to  settle  their 
accounts  himself  if  there  was  no  money  forthcoming  from  Mor 
ton,  and  he  insisted  upon  Elsie's  occupying  the  manager's  cot 
tage  through  the  summer  or  until  Morton  was  settled  with  a 
job  some  where. 

Elsie  remained,  her  growing  concern  for  her  husband  and 
little  brood  admonished  her  to  retain  the  friends  she  had 
and  lent  a  foreboding  that  she  would  need  them  even  more  in 
the  future  than  now.  She  had  hoped  that  his  excursion  after 
work,  away  from  his  old  associations  and  drinking  companions 
would  give  him  an  opportunity  to  brace  up  and  get  hold  of 
himself,  but  the  weakness  at  which  the  alcohol  poison  had 
struck  seemed  to  be  a  vital  one,  provided  by  a  nervous  pre- 


THE    CLAW  307 

disposition  to  excess.  He  had  always  played  to  excess,  worked 
to  excess,  carried  any  enthusiasm  he  might  adopt  to  a  point 
beyond  the  normal.  His  temperament,  fitted  to  accomplish, 
to  accomplish  even  brilliantly,  certain  to  obtain  success  in 
anything  he  might  take  up  within  the  limit  of  his  natural  ability, 
was  also  just  the  kind  of  temperament  to  provide  a  victim  to 
the  alcohol  habit  and  one  with  whom  the  work  of  degeneracy, 
moral  and  physical,  would  be  quick.  The  latter  work  was 
already  accomplished  and  Morton  was  a  physical  wreck. 
The  outward  signs  of  excess,  so  apparent  to  the  experienced 
eye,  turned  him  away  with  a  refusal  from  more  positions  than 
he  knew. 

Morton  returned  from  his  latest  trip  in  search  of  work  in 
a  more  alarming  condition  than  Elsie  had  ever  seen  him  before, 
one  that  spoke  desperation.  He  had  evidently  known  no 
cessation  of  drink  since  he  had  left.  The  hideous  temptation 
had  met  him  at  every  turn,  beckoned  in  every  town  he  went, 
invited  at  every  street,  breathed  across  his  face  from  the 
mouths  of  men — turned  and,  just  as  his  will,  with  a  desperate 
revival  of  strength  had  cried,  "I  won't,"  laid  hold  on  him  with 
its  iron  hand  and  a  leer  that  said,  "Oh,  yes  you  will,  you  know, 
for  you  are  mineV1  and  the  shuddering  ego  in  the  man  bowed 
its  submission  and  followed. 

Morton  was  morose,  uncommunicative,  sat,  while  at  home, 
for  hours  without  a  word,  his  head  in  his  hands,  his  eyes  staring 
sullenly  before  him.  He  was  frequently  away  and  returned 
in  the  early  hours  of  the  morning  or  not  at  all  till  the  next  night. 
Elsie  shuddered  at  thought  of  his  return.  Her  night  hours, 
while  she  sat  and  waited  for  him,  or  tossed  in  suspense  on  her 
bed,  dreading  the  sound  of  his  unsteady  steps  were  full  of  the 
anguish  that  only  those  who  have  lived  with  the  same 
terror  know.  She  wondered  with  tortured  mind  what  manner 
of  child  would  be  the  one  that  slept  in  her  bosom,  what 


308  THE    CLAW 

hideous  inheritance  of  weakness  and  evil  it  knew,  conceived 
by  a  drunkard  and  carried  by  a  mother  whose  daily  thought 
impressed  its  subconscious  mind  with  such  drea,d.  She  prayed 
piteously  that  the  curse  might  pass  from  it.  She  prayed  des 
perately  for  her  children,  that  the  frightful  greed  that  hunts 
on  the  highways  of  the  land  and  in  the  streets  of  the  city  and 
in  the  places  where  men  meet  for  legitimate  comradeship  and 
pleasure — where  they  must  go  to  press  the  business  of  life- 
might  not  lay  hold  on  her  beautiful  boys. 

She  thought  with  a  frightful  dread  of  the  future,  of  the 
future  in  which  that  threat  would  live  and  pursue,  though  she 
might  raise  them  strong,  and  see  them  established  in  soberness 
and  industry. 

How  it  would  wait  for  them  at  that  hour — God  knew  when — 
when  accident,  or  infirmity  or  undiscovered  weakness  or  the 
need  at  a  crucial  moment  would  cause  them  to  turn  to  Its 
embrace — The  Terrible  One — from  whose  arms,  the  fever  of 
whose  breath  they  should  never  more  be  freed,  till  life  had  gone 
out  in  a  last  gasp  of  despair  and  remorse.  So  Elsie  thought, 
sitting  day  by  day,  sewing  on  her  baby  clothes,  with  her  heart 
a  dead  thing  within  her  and  her  brain  a  nest  of  living  drep.d! 

Morton  had  been  away  for  two  days.  She  could  not  locate 
him.  He  had  said  when  he  left  that  he  would  be  back  that 
night,  be  at  the  Fair  Association  headquarters  the  greater 
part  of  the  day — Grant,  president  of  the  Association,  had  prom 
ised  him  a  day  of  auditing  the  books.  He  would  not  be  out 
till  late.  There  was  little  need  of  that  postscript.  She  never 
looked  for  him  early. 

He  did  not  come  that  night  nor  the  next  day,  nor  the  next 
night.  She  had  called  up  at  the  Fair  Association  office.  They 
had  not  seen  him.  He  was  to  have  been  there.  They  had 
given  him  a  day's  work;  possibly  more.  He  had  seemed  glad 
to  have  the  job. 


THE    CLAW  309 

Elsie's  heart  was  sick.  She  knew  the  reason  why  Morton 
had  not  shown  up.  The  family  would  not  even  have  his 
wages  for  the  one  day.  They  needed  it.  She  had  called  up 
many  places  where  she  thought  he  might  be.  At  her  request, 
Duncan  had  searched  through  the  various  saloons  where 
he  'thought  Morton  might  be  found.  They  were  no  longer 
those  of  the  plate  glass  character. 

The  man  who  begins  as  a  social  drinker  and  finds  himself 
presently  in  the  gutter  has,  in  his  descent,  fallen  through 
several  strata  of  society,  and  at  the  last  it  is  the  dive  down  by 
the  tracks,  or  across  in  the  tenderloin  that  receives  the  finished 
work.  It  is  the  low  saloon — the  hell  holes  of  the  red  light- 
that  get  the  pickings  from  the  palaces  on  Broadway  and  Com 
mercial  street.  With  a  vast  righteousness  the  Palace  bar 
refuses  to  quench  with  more  drink  the  fires  it  has  started  in 
the  maddened  throats  of  men.  The  low  saloon  may  have  him, 
then,  if  it  will  be  so  inhuman  as  to  prey  on  visible  weakness. 

And  the  low  saloon  receives  him.  But  by  a  strange  circum 
stance  the  pennies  handed  across  the  bar  of  the  dive  by  the 
shaking  hand  of  the  man  in  the  last  grip  of  alcohol  poisoning, 
find  a  place  side  by  side  with  the  gold  pieces  the  smart  patrons 
toss  carelessly  to  the  cashier  of  the  Palace.  The  strong  box 
of  the  Palace  and  the  dive  are  the  same. 

And  Duncan  acknowledged  this  as  true,  in  some  cases,  in 
such  cases  as  Blythe,  and  others,  but  not  with  all.  And  not 
much  longer.  He  was  thrilled  with  the  zest  for  a  fight — a 
fight  that  would  put  the  greedy  man,  the  man  of  unscrupulous 
ambitions  out  of  business,  and  exalt  the  industry  of  the  sound 
man  the  humane  man — the  man  who  would  sell  pure  goods 
to  temperate  men,  at  sane  hours  in  a  safe  and  respectable 
place.  He  commended  the  Palace  saloon  for  its  respectability— 
for  the  clean  and  sanitary  and  attractive  and  wholesome  en 
vironment  it  supplied  for  its  patrons. 


310  THE    CLAW 

He  commended  the  Palace  saloon's  humanity  for  refusing 
drink  to  Morton  and  his  kind.  He  condemned,  in  all  the  terms 
he  knew,  the  saloon  that  would  receive  Morton's  infrequently 
earned  dimes  and  send  him  home  to  abuse  Elsie  and  the 
children.  But  what  he  intended  to  do  with  Morton  and  his 
kind — at  the  stage  the  Palace  saloon  found  it  had  no  farther 
use  for  them — just  what  he  meant  to  do  with  them  he  hadn't 
considered.  It  is  the  point  at  which  a  great  many  pause  in 
their  reform  of  the  saloon. 

Duncan  did  not  find  Morton.  But  Morton  came  home. 
On  the  third  night  at  midnight,  Elsie,  waking  from  a  sleep  of 
sheer  exhaustion  into  which  she  had  fallen,  heard  his  footsteps. 
She  hurried  out  into  the  hall,  the  nervous  fear  that  always 
clutched  her  now-a-days  turning  her  cold  and  shivering.  She 
wished  now  that  she  had  accepted  Jeanie's  offer  to 
stay  with  her  till  Morton  returned,  but  she  had  never 
failed  Morton.  She  hung  a  desperate  hope  on  that  fact.  Some 
how  she  felt  that  the  day  she  went  away  and  closed  the  door 
against  him,  the  day  he  should  return  and  find  no  light  or 
presence  at  home,  would  be  the  day  she  lost  him  forever. 

Besides,  Morton  usually  returned  home  sober,  at  least  from 
any  prolonged  sprees.  It  was  when  he  was  working  up  to  a 
season  of  excess  that  he  was — she  had  not  yet  called  it  "danger 
ous."  She  had  let  the  children  remain  with  Jeanie  for  to 
night  as  she  frequently  did.  She  was  glad. 

He  was  at  the  door.  He  had  come  home  on  the  night  trolley 
that  passed  the  end  of  the  vineyard.  He  had  drawn  his  day's 
wages  in  advance  on  excuse  of  a  bill  that  needed  paying  and  had 
doubled  it,  tiipled  it,  a  half  dozen  times  in  a  remarkable  streak 
of  luck  at  poker  in  the  rooms  of  the  Golden  West  bar  across 
the  tracks.  He  had  gone  no  farther  for  three  days  than  the 
bar  in  front.  The  Golden  West  had  managed  to  return  every 
cent  Morton  had  won  to  the  till  from  whence  it  came. 


THE    CLAW  311 

For  three  days  Morton  had  lived  on  poison.  From  the 
Golden  West,  when  his  money  was  gone  he  made  his  way  to 
a  bar  up  town — the  second  stratum  up — but  the  bar  of  the 
second  stratum  up,  while  not,  itself,  lacking  in  hospitality  to 
any  man  who  might  have  the  price  of  a  beer  had  recently  re 
ceived  a  hard  jolt  at  the  hands  of  a  newly  appointed  and  zealous 
officer  for  selling  to  individuals  bearing  Morton's  earmarks. 
And  beside,  Morton  had  not  the  price.  The  bar-keep,  however, 
gave  him  the  news  that  he  was  wanted,  that  his  wife  had  had 
Cameron  calling  up  all  the  saloons  in  town  to  locate  him. 

" Cameron!"  The  word  acted  like  fire  in  the  veins  of  the 
man  already  mad  with  the  need  of  another  drink.  The  bar 
keeper  for  the  sake  of  old  times  stretched  his  conscience  and 
gave  Morton  that  drink.  It  was  a  small  one  but  it  was  all 
that  he  could  do  for  him.  He  took  him  out  to  the  corner  and 
put  him  on  the  suburban  car.  The  drink  brought  him  tem 
porary  relief.  Morton  slept  on  the  way  out  and  when  he  had 
been  helped  oft7  the  car  by  the  conductor — a  friendly  man, 
who  knew  Elsie  and  pitied  her — he  wove  his  way  with  dif 
ficulty  homeward.  But  at  the  door  of  his  home,  with  Elsie 
coming  down  the  hall  toward  him,  her  scared  and  haggard 
face  lighted  by  the  low  gleam  of  the  night  lamp,  the  flame  of 
his  rage  and  thirst  broke  out  within  him.  She  was  slow  in 
opening  the  door  and  he  beat  viciously  upon  it.  When  she 
had  opened  it  and  he  reeled  in,  she  fell  back  in  a  fear  that 
enraged  him.  Why  did  she  look  that  way  at  him?  Why  had 
she  sent  Cameron,  crying  the  whole  town  over  for  him — Cam 
eron,  the  man  that  had  ruined  him,  he  demanded  hoarsely, 
his  rage  clearing  his  tongue. 

"Harry,  be  quiet!  You'll  wake  the  neighbors.  Come  in — 
let  me  get  something  to  eat  for  you.  You  are  tired,  sick." 

"No,"  he  cried,  "Answer  me — why  did  you  send  that  cur 
after  me?" 


312  THE    CLAW 

"You  were  gone  so  long,  dear,  and  I  was  worried — I  was 
afraid,"  she  said  soothingly. 

"Afraid,  afraid  of  your  husband?  That's  a  nice  way  to  talk. 
Afraid — you're  afraid  are  you?  You  look  at  me  as  if  I'd  hurt 
you — kill  you." 

"Why — no,  not  that!"  she  shuddered. 

"You  do.  You  are  always  looking  at  me  as  though  I  was 
something  awful,  something  you  couldn't  stand;  something 
too  far  gone  for  anything!  You  look  at  me,  always,  out  of 
your  big  eyes,  and  you  send  some  one  after  me  when  I  go  away, 
as  though  I  were  a  baby — as  though  I  didn't  know  what  I 
was  doing — as  though  I  couldn't  take  care  of  myself."  He 
had  come  near  her  and  was  glaring  into  her  face  in  a  frenzy  of 
rage.  "I'll  teach  you  to  spy  on  me,  to  send  that  sneak  after 
me,"  he  seized  her  arm — "I'll  teach  you!"  He  struck  her 
full  in  the  face  with  his  open  hand.  She  staggered  back, 
groping  for  the  wall,  her  hand  going  to  her  face  in  s  daze  of 
horror. 

"Harry!"     Her  tone  maddened  him: 

"Shut  up!  Shut  up,  I  say.  Don't  cry!  Don't  you  dare 
cry  when  I  strike  you.  Not  a  w7himper — I  won't  have  it!" 

"But  Harry — oh,  Harry — you  struck  me!  Oh  my  God, 
you  struck  me!"  Her  face  went  down  on  her  arm  with  a 
shuddering  cry.  He  seized  her,  whirled  her  half  around  and 
glared  savagely  into  her  dazed  face. 

"If  you  yell  like  that  again  I'll  kill  you!  Ah,  I  know  you — 
I  know  you'd  have  folks  think  I  was  all  in.  That  I  was  clean 
gone — a  drunken  sot — that's  what  you  want  them  to  think! 
That's  what  you  sent  Cameron  for,  to  tell  everybody  he  saw 
that  I  was  off  my  nut- — gone — down  and  out  and  no  good." 

"Harry — no!"  she  cried.  "Not  that.  You  don't  under 
stand.  You're  not  in  a  condition  to  understand." 

"There  it  goes  again — 'not  in  a  condition!'     Ah — its  a  fine 


THE    CLAW  313 

wife  that  talks  that  way  to  her  husband.  You're  a  faithful 
wife,  you  are,  yes — but — how  do  I  know!  How  do  I  know 
that  you  are!  You're  right — I'm  away  too  much." 

"Harry!  you  shan't  talk  that  way.  I  can't  live  and  let 
you  talk  that  way!" 

Well — how  do  I  know  you  ought  to  live?" — he  seized  her  arm, 
dragging  her  to  him  and  staring  into  her  eyes  with  a  searching 
face.  "How  do  I  know?"  her  blood  froze  at  the  look.  She 
struggled  with  all  her  strength  to  get  away,  but  he  held  her, 
pushing  her  slowly  backward  and  to  her  knees,  his  eyes  on  her 
face. 

"Harry!"  she  cried,  her  strength  going.  "Harry!  You 
won't  kill  me  will  you?  You  won't  kill  me — and  the  little 
baby!" 

"Maybe  I  ought  to.  Maybe  I  ought  to!"  She  flung  her 
self  upon  him  as  he  held  her,  threw  her  arms  about  his  knees, 
clung  to  him,  called  him  by  the  tender  names  she  used  to  have 
for  him  before  she  had  lost  heart  for  such  terms. 

"Harry,  dear  Harry!  Look  at  me.  You  forget  who  I  am. 
It's  I,  Elsie — your  wife — who  loves  you!  Remember — oh, 
remember  how  happy  we  were  that  night  when  you  took  me. 
You  were  so  proud  and  bonnie!  And  we  walked  home,  Harry, 
under  the  tall  trees.  The  moon  was  very  high  and  it  shone 
on  the  roof  of  our  little  house — yours  and  mine.  And  don't 
you  remember — dear — when  the  first  baby  came?  He  was 
so  little — oh,  his  dear  little  toes!"  she  laughed  hysterically. 
"And  the  next  little  baby  girl.  Harry!  We  both  wanted  a 
girl.  And  she  died."  She  was  speaking  calmer  now,  as  she 
felt  his  tense  body  relax  and  his  hands  tremble  and  lose  their 
grip.  She  had  gained  her  feet,  her  arms  still  embracing  him. 

"And  then  another  boy  with  blue  eyes — just  like  yours, 
sweetheart!"  She  kissed  his  eyelids,  dropping  over  his  sullen 
eyes.  His  hands  had  dropped  from  her  shoulders  and  he 


314  THE    CLAW 

leaned  against  the  wall  dazedly.  This  was  what  she  had 
foreseen  —  madness.  But  she  had  won  him  from  himself  this 
time  —  perhaps  for  all  time.  She  was  thrilled  with  a  great 

joy. 

"And   dear,   this   one,    this   little   one!"     She  stretched  her 
arms  with  a  comprehensive  jesture. 


The  word  was  a  scream.  He  had  seized  her,  pushing  her  to 
her  knees,  again,  his  hands  on  her  throat. 

"That's  it,  that's  it!  I'd  forgotten.  That's  why  you  ought 
to  die."  His  hands  closed  on  her  throat  but  relaxed. 

"No  —  not  that  way!"  he  panted.  "You'll  look  at  me  —  you  — 
you'll  look  at  me  from  your  big  eyes.  Wait!"  He  reached  into 
his  breast,  holding  her  with  one  iron  hand.  She  knew.  Her 
head  went  back,  her  hands  clasped  the  arm  that  held  her. 
It  came  to  her  that  "little  baby"  would  never  know  —  neither 
this,  nor  the  tragedy  of  his  own  life.  A  great  peace  took  her 
and  she  smiled  as  she  fell. 

He  saw  her  face  through  the  smoke.  The  blue  eyes  looked 
at  him  still  and  with  a  terrible  cry  he  turned  the  pistol  to  his 
own  breast  and  fell  beside  her. 


CHAPTER    XXXVIII 

It  was  twelve  miles  to  the  vineyard.  The  men  reached  it 
in  fifteen  minutes.  They  turned  in  past  the  family  home, 
the  lights  of  the  house  flashing  by  like  a  shot.  The  machine 
ground  to  a  standstill  outside  Morton's  house,  beyond,  with 
a  shock  that  threw  the  occupants  from  their  seats.  Duncan's 
neighbors  closed  about  it  silently  with  blanched  faces. 

" Where  are  they?"  he  asked,  with  parched  lips. 

They  waved  him  without  words  to  the  hallway.  Duncan 
and  the  Doctor  passed  up  the  steps  with  hats  off,  the  crowd 
closing  silently  behind.  In  the  hall,  in  the  rear,  just  in 
front  of  the  door,  they  came  upon  them.  There  had  been 
no  need  for  the  doctor's  services — he  had  been  sent  for  in 
the  first  panic.  The  bodies  had  not  been  moved  from  where 
they  fell:  Elsie's  and  Morton's — Elsie's  lying  face  upward, 
a  curious  smile  upon  it,  Morton's  fallen  across  her,  his  head 
under  him,  the  pistol  still  clutched  in  his  hand. 

A  tragedy  such  as  enacted  on  La  Mesa  Vineyard,  shocking 
in  its  effect  on  all  connected  with  it,  must  at  all  times  fall  most 
prostratingly  on  that  mind  in  which  dwells  a  sense  of  responsi 
bility  for  the  catastrophe,  even  the  faintest.  Such  was  the 
shaft  that  felled  Duncan.  Grief,  horror,  these  would  not  have 
served  to  loose  to  such  an  extent  his  practiced  self-control, 
but  the  reproach  of  Morton,  of  Elsie,  almost  the  last  words  he 
could  remember  from  her — this  fell  upon  his  horrified  senses 
as  he  looked  upon  the  tragedy,  the  culminating  blight. 

With  a  face  like  a  dead  man,  Duncan  assumed  control  of 
the  situation.  He  cleared  the  house  of  the  staring  throng,  he 
called  the  undertaker,  he  made  temporary  disposition  of  the 
bodies  after  the  official  formalities  were  over.  From  his  chauf 
feur  he  had  learned  that  Elsie's  children  were  with  his  mother, 


316  THE    CLAW 

One  of  his  first  acts  had  been  to  call  her  up  and  assure  himself 
of  her  condition  and  the  care  of  the  innocent  orphans.  His 
mother's  tones  over  the  telephone  betrayed  the  shock  she  had 
undergone  but  she  WPS  a  woman  of  self  control.  Duncan  had 
drawn  from  her  his  own  resourcefulness  and  quiet  in  time  of 
crisis. 

He  did  all  things  swiftly,  silently,  a  hundred  things  that 
appeared  to  be  done  in  the  next  few  days,  during  that  somber 
and  never  to  be  forgotten  time  of  death,  the  t  me  when  the 
mortal,  unavailing  tokens  of  the  vanished,  are  abandoned  to 
their  place.  He  did  all  things,  moving  with  quickness  and 
decision,  his  physical  and  mental  powers  made  to  serve  his  will 
the  while  within  him  he  knew  the  burden  of  an  insupportable 
weight;  something  that  dragged  upon  him  till  he  was  near 
to  fainting,  to  falling;  the  consciousness  of  his  own  part  in  the 
unspeakable  catastrophe. 

It  never  left  him.  In  the  moment  his  mind  crowded  with 
concerns  for  the  living  and  work  for  the  dead  loosed  one  in 
stant  its  preoccupations,  remorse  gripped  him  and  his  brain 
writhed  in  its  agony  as  in  a  physical  spasm.  Morton!  Elsie! 
Their  little  children!  With  tragic  precociousness  they  de 
manded  daily  what  he  had  done  with  their  papa  and  mama. 
Had  the  officers  come  and  taken  them  away  to  prison,  like 
they  did  little  Carlos's  papa?  Was  that  why  they  were  brought 
over  and  left  all  night  at  "grandma's"  so  that  the  wicked  "cops" 
could  come  and  carry  Daddy  and  Marmie  off? 

Duncan  thought  he  had  been  a  witness  of  human  grief. 
He  thought  his  mind  had  suffered  in  the  revelations  of  Glad's 
calamity,  in  Amanda's  grief,  before,  in  that  hour  when  Douglas' 
young  body  had  been  given  into  his  father's  arms,  in  his  father's 
death.  He  thought  he  had  sounded  all  the  poignant  forms  of 
grief,  but  he  had  never  imagined  for  himself  such  anguish  as 
he  knew  in  the  definace  of  these  babies  demanding  father — 


THE    CLAW  317 

mother — those  priceless  possessions  that  drink  had  snatched 
from  them  in  hideous  tragedy. 

Drink!  God — drink\  Drink  made  of  the  fruit  of  his  own 
vineyard — why  not?  Or  some  one's  else  vineyard.  Wine — 
harmless  wine,  social  wine;  the  temperance  drink,  the  drink 
that  brings  no  excess,  that  tends  to  sobriety,  to  health,  to 
happiness!  Wine,  to  be  drunk  at  the  bar  and  at  the  clubs  and 
in  the  homes;  to  be  exploited  among  men  who  have  not  known 
its  use;  among  the  women,  the  mothers  and  the  sisters,  among 
the  boys  and  girls;  among  the  little  children;  to  be  infused  in 
the  veins  of  children  unborn!  Wine — for  the  sake  of  the  in 
dustry;  for  the  sake  of  the  men  and  women  who  want  to  earn 
a  living  thereby;  who  want  an  income — a  handsome  income, 
fine  houses,  luxurious  clothes,  automobiles,  college  courses, 
European  trips!  Wine — that  must  be  consumed  that  the 
business  may  live!  Wine—\k&  polite  way  by  which  men  take 
their  first  step  toward  death! 

His  mind  encompassed  many  things:  he  thought  of  the 
speech  he  had  made,  championing  this  very  thing,  and  of 
the  effect — the  very  visible  effect  on  his  audience.  The 
paper  had  pronounced  it  one  of  the  most  eloquent  in  the 
history  of  the  town;  bad  recalled  Cameron  and  spoken  of  the 
deep  impression  made  on  the  wine  men  by  the  young  man  who 
in  all  ways  promised  to  be  the  brilliant  leader  and  public  man 
his  well  remembered  and  esteemed  father  had  been. 

Duncan  recalled  his  success  with  something  like  physical 
nausea.  And  it  had  all  been  induced  by  wine,  his  eloquence 
even,  the  spirit  that  took  him  out  of  himself  and  conveyed  him 
to  undreamed  heights.  In  other  words,  he  was  drunk.  It 
was  drink  entering  in  and  possessing  him  and  using  him  as  a 
mouth  piece  to  word  its  specious  arguments.  Once  before  it 
had  laid  hold  on  him,  covertly,  without  his  knowing  its  designs: 
that  night  at  Corinne's.  And  it  had  made  a  beast  of  him, 


318  THE    CLAW 

in  one  moment  had  struck  from  the  throne  of  his  being,  his 
regal  self,  his  decent  and  purity-loving  ego,  and  loosed  some 
thing,  within  him  of  which  he  had  not  known  himself  possessed, 
breathing  abominable  desire  toward  the  woman  he  loved.  This 
was  its  proper  work  then — to  revive  the  hardly  vanquished 
beast  in  a  man  and  with  it  the  impulse  of  lust  and  slaughter. 

Yet  it  had  its  politic  means.  It  not  only  dashed  off  the  locks 
behind  which  man's  lowest  being  is  held  safe  by  his  conscious 
and  civilized  self,  but  it  catered  to  that  same  self,  whispered 
into  the  sane  mind  its  persuasions.  The  plausibility  of  its 
service:  "Men  are  not  always  their  best,  at  the  fullest  of  their 
powers,  when  they  most  need  them;  the  physical  fails  by  acci 
dent  or  weakness,  or  the  result  of  some  sustained  strain.  Here 
is  an  ally — stimulus  for  the  hour — for  crucial  moment, 
and  no  harm  done." 

He  shuddered.  With  perfect  understanding  and  compas 
sion  he  saw  now  the  way  Middleson  and  Wakefield  and  Toland 
had  gone — how  Hay  ward  and  Hattery  were  going,  and  a  dozen 
others  he  knew.  How  be  would  have  gone  inevitably  should 
he  follow  the  course  be  began  the  other  night — the  course 
of  public  life  and  the  necessity  to  keep  up  and  hold  his  own. 
He  had  set  his  mark  in  his  first  speech — it  was  by  the  prod  of 
wine  that  he  had  accomplished  his  first  brilliant  success.  Wine 
provided  the  match  that  united  emotion  with  the  power  of 
expression.  He  would  have  sought  it  again,  often,  always, 
for  beside  the  temptation  provided  by  its  serviceability  there 
was  the  inherited  weakness  for  it. 

"God!  Was  there  any  doubt  but  that  what  Morton  had 
said  of  his  father  was  true — that  the  drink  at  the  last,  had 
possessed  him?  Yes,  and  was  it  not  before,  long  before,  that 
the  thing  began;  when  he  was  a  youth,  like  himself,  and  in 
the  same  way — drink,  a  prod  to  his  natural  resources  the  avail- 
ibility  of  which  his  erratic  temperament  made  uncertain? 


THE    CLAW  319 

And  this  was  the  explanation  of  that  genius  that  flamed  up 
on  the  moment,  in  the  hour  of  conviviality  and  fellowship 
into  a  dazzling  thing,  and  left  him  exhausted  and  over  wrought 
for  a  day.  Thus  the  explanation  of  that  growing  disability, 
the  gradual  loosening  of  his  hold  on  practical  affairs;  the 
unrest,  the  impatience,  the  harshness  later  with  Jeanie  and 
himself,  strive  as  they  might  to  please  him. 

Certainly  he  had  known  that  some  of  it  was  provided  by 
too  much  use  of  stimulants  but  he  and  Jeanie  had  carried 
it  all  with  a  great  charity,  a  great  ignorance.  If  it  were  excess 
it  was  the  result  of  his  bereavement,  of  the  shocked  and  ravished 
love  of  his  great  heart.  They  had  never  questioned  his  course, 
never  reproached  by  word  or  look,  never  tried  to  dissuade 
him  from  his  determined  course,  had  allowed  themselves  to 
see  and  think  nothing.  Ah,  what  blindness,  what  mistaken 
devotion! 

He  sought  Dr.  Elliot's  office  on  appointment.  And  sat 
waiting  for  him  with  a  gray,  and  stricken  face. 

"Doctor,"  he  asked  at  once,  "I  came  to  ask  you  about 
something  and  I  want  the  truth.  What  did  my  father  die 
of,  what  was  the  real  cause?"  The  doctor  studied  him  for 
a  moment,  Duncan  looked  like  a  man  to  be  answered. 

"Your  father  died  of  alcohol  poisoning,  occasioned  by 
long  social  use  of  drink,  mostly  wine,  hastened  by  excess  in 
his  last  years.  His  death  followed  an  unusual  indulgence. 
It  caused  rupture  of  the  already  enlarged  blood  vessels  of 
the  heart  and  induced  hemorrhage."  Duncan  sat  silent  for 
a  long  moment,  then  he  reached  for  his  hat:  "Thank  you," 
he  said.  But  at  the  door  he  wheeled: 

"In  .God's  name,  doctor,  why  didn't  you  tell  me,  why  didn't 
you  let  me  know  before!  Why  didn't  you  warn  me  months, 
years,  before  my  father  died,  when  he  first  began  to  go  that 
way?  I  might  have  done  something  to  prevent  it.  I  might 


320  THE    CLAW 

have  done  something,  many  things,  since.  Do  you  think 
if  I'd  known  that  I  would  have  kept  on  providing  the  stuff 
that  killed  my  father,  one  of  the  finest,  one  of  the  strongest? 
My  God,  doctor!  What  did  you  mean?"  For  once,  in  what, 
in  the  eyes  of  most  men  would  have  been  called  an  unusually 
conscientious  career,  Dr.  Elliot's  face  flushed  and  his  eyes 
showed  chagrin,  shame. 

"God  knows  Duncan,  it's  the  way  of  our  profession  to 
cover  up,  to  make  it  easy  for  the  family.  I  tried  myself, 
believe  that,  my  boy,  to  make  your  father  see,  and  understand 
reason,  but  he  was  too  far  gone.  It  was  a  part  of  his  social 
habits  first,  and  then  when  the  chemical  need  came  it  was 
too  late.  He  didn't  want  you  to  know,  your  mother  did  not 
want  you  to  know.  They  made  me  promise." 

Duncan  hung  his  hea,d,  he  went  slowly  out.  Something 
vital  in  his  conception  of  his  father  and  mother  that  made 
up  his  life,  slipped  from  his  heart  and  away  forever. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

Duncan  was  absent  from  his  duties  at  the  Grape  Protective 
Association  a  week.  When  he  returned  he  walked  into  the 
president's  office  and  laid  his  resignation  on  the  latter's  desk. 
Mr.  Whitten  looked  at  him  inquiringly,  then  opened  and  read 
it. 

"What's  this  for?"  he  asked  abruptly. 

"What's  it  for?"  asked  Duncan,  hoarsely.  A  great 
indignation  seized  him.  "You  haven't  heard  of  the  tragedy 
on  my  place?" 

"Why  yes,  very  terrible,  very  regretable.  But  really  I 
don't  see  what  that  has  to  do  with  it." 

"You  don't?"  Duncan  choked.  Words  failed  him  in 
his  utter  indignation.  Was  it  imposs  ble  that  this  man  could 
face  it  out,  make  pretense  of  ignorance  of  any  possible  connection 
between  .his  business,  his  and  Whitten's,  and  this  hideous 
catastrophe?  Excuse,  he  might,  argue  he  would,  naturally, 
Duncan  could  not  have  hoped  that  the  case  would  lie  as  plain 
in  all  men's  eyes  as  in  his  own,  but  this  was  heartless. 

"I  can't  talk  about  it  now,"  he  cried.  "I'll  tell  you  my 
mind  soon,  tonight,  at  the  meeting  called  n  the  interests 
of  the  campaign."  He  turned  and  walked  out. 

It  was  the  first  meeting  of  the  wine  men  called  to  complete 
plans  for  the  summer's  fight,  the  campaign  of  the  Wets  against 
the  Dry  amendment.  It  would  include  practically  all  of 
those  present  on  the  night  of  the  banquet,  and  more.  Duncan 
was  scheduled  for  the  leading  talk.  His  recent  announcement 
and  the  work  he  had  already  done  as  secretary  of  the  local 
protective  association  fitted  him  to  be  the  most  effective  and 
popular  speaker.  His  mind,  working  along  the  simplest 
lines  of  deduction,  told  him  that  his  first  responsibility  was 


322  THE    CLAW 

to  undo  his  arguments  of  the  banquet  night.  It  was  the 
only  course  to  take,  to  convey  to  all  his  new  knowledge,  the 
new  light  that  had  dawned  on  him  on  that  fearful  morning, 
gleaming  across  the  prostrate  bodies  of  his  friends. 

He  sought  the  place  in  the  evening.  It  was  the  banquet 
room  of  the  same  hotel  in  which  the  first  meeting  was  held. 
As  he  entered  the  memories  of  the  night  one  week  before  were 
so  vivid  as  to  almost  overwhelm  him.  The  week  had  left 
its  mark  on  him;  he  looked  old,  worn.  But  he  walked  with  a 
grim  determination,  his  shoulders  squared.  An  incident  of 
the  afternoon  had  roused  every  ounce  of  fight  in  him.  Whitten 
and  Powell,  the  latter  the  chairman  of  the  program  committee 
for  the  evening,  had  met  him  as  he  was  coming  out  of  the 
St.  George  grill  and  asked  for  a  word  with  him.  They  stepped 
into  an  ante-room  off  the  lobby  and  sat  down. 

"Well  Cameron,  Whitten  here  tells  me  you  have  changed 
face  on  the  liquor  question  and  are  about  to  throw  your  friends 
down,  that  you  expect  to  speak  on  the  subject  tonight  instead 
of  the  talk  we'd  expected  from  you."  Duncan  looked  across 
at  Whitten  squarely  for  a  full  moment,  contempt  in  his  gaze. 

"Yes,"   he   said,    "that's  true.' 

"Well,  say,"  remarked  Powell,  "I  guess  you'd  better  not. 
I  guess  you'd  better  just  cut  it  out.  I  haven't  any  argument 
with  you  about  your  stand;  I  suppose  you  conceive  it  to  be 
right,  but  there's  no  need  of  making  a  fuss  about  it.  You 
have  your  own  convictions  and  you're  willing  to  allow  us  ours, 
I  suppose.  We'll  just  cancel  that  talk  of  yours  tonight." 

"You  will?  answered  Duncan.  "Well,  you  won't.  I'm 
scheduled  to  talk  at  the  meeting  tonight.  I'm  announced 
candidate  for  assemblyman  and  this  meeting  is  called  for 
introducing  my  views  to  the  rest  of  the  wine  men,  it's  my 
meeting.  I  intend  to  talk." 

The  two  men  stared  at  him.     He  sat  back  in  his  chair  motion- 


THE    CLAW  323 

less.  Not  a  muscle  of  him  twitched,  his  face  was  absolutely 
composed  but  his  words  bit  like  a  steel  clip  and  his  clenched 
fist,  lying  out  on  the  table,  raised  the  great  muscles  in  his 
arm  to  his  bared  elbow.  They  reached  for  their  hats  with 
some  embarrassment  and  sidled  toward  the  door. 

"All  right,  just  as  you  say,"  said  Powell,  "but  I  think  you'd 
better  reconsider  the  matter."  As  the  door  closed  behind 
them  Duncan  reached  for  the  telephone.  Pie  got  Mr. 
Cummings  on  the  line.  Mr.  Cummings  had  been  out  of 
town  since  the  day  after  the  tragedy  and  he  had  not  been  able 
to  see  him. 

"Mr.    Cummings?" 

"Yes." 

"This  is  Duncan.  Mr.  Cummings,  you  are  chairman  of 
the  campaign  committee  of  our  association,  the  Grape  Growers 
Protective  Association?" 

"Why  of  course,  yes." 

"I  am  the  main  speaker  tonight,  you  know.  The  meeting 
was  called  in  order  for  me  to  repeat  my  announcement  of 
the  other  night  and  outline  a  plan  of  campaign  for  fighting 
the  Drys.  Isn't  that  so?" 

"Yes,    certainly!" 

"Mr.  Cummings,  I  have  changed  front  on  this  question. 
Since  the  tragedy,  the  unspeakable  tragedy  on  my  vineyard, 
I  have  seen  a  new  light,  the  real  face  of  this  problem.  I  wrote 
you  a  line  at  Sacramento  indicating  that,  saying  I  wanted  to 
see  and  talk  the  matter  over  with  you  when  you  returned. 
Maybe  you  didn't  get  it.  I  want  to  talk  to  you,  I  want  to 
talk  to  all  my  friends  whom  I  yet  love,  esteem;  my  change 
of  heart  has  made  no  difference  in  that  way.  I  want  to  talk 
to  them,  tell  them  what  I  feel  and  how  I  came  to  feel  it,  convince 
them  that  I  am  right.  I  want,  like  a  man,  to  come  before 


324  THE     CLAW 

them  in  their  own  circle,  not  public,  and  make  my  stand, 
then  step  down  and  out  of  the  business  forever." 

"Duncan!" 

"Yes,  that's  it.  But  they're  trying  to  prevent  me.  Some 
of  them,  Whitten  and  Powell,  were  in  here  just  now  and  said 
they  guessed  I'd  better  call  my  speech  off,  they'd  cancel  the 
talk,  etc.  By  God!  If  I  had  ever  had  my  doubts  about  the 
integrity  of  this  business  it's  now  when  these  men  I've  trusted 
as  conscientious,  honest  men,  my  friends,  deny  me  the  privilege 
of  taking  a  frank  stand,  an  honest  say  in  the  matter  in  their 
councils  behind  the  closed  doors  of  their  meeting.  Will  you 
stand  for  it,  Mr.  Cummings,  or  will  you,  with  the  authority 
that's  yours,  say  I  shall  have  a  chance  to  have  my  word?" 

"My  boy,  this  is  all  so  new,  so  amazing,  so  overwhelming! 
I  wish  I  could  see  you,  talk  to  you  before  night.  But  I  can't, 
I'm  leaving  just  now  for  Lodi  and  won't  be  back  till  just  in 
time  for  the  meeting.  Whitten,  Powell,  you  say?  Why 
no,  .they  have  no  such  authority  if  you  want  to  speak,  if  you're 
determined  to  speak.  You're  booked  and  they  can't  cancel 
it  without  your  request  or  my  permission.  I'll  see  to  that. 

"But  Duncan,  boy,  have  a  care!  Think  what  this  means. 
Think  what  an  irretrievp.ble  step  it  involves — your  whole 
career,  your  life  prospects.  Duncan,  do  you  know  what 
you're  talking  about?"  The  older  man's  voice  came  brokenly. 

"Mr.  Cummings,  I  know  what  I'm  talking  about.  I  realize 
every  thing.  Good-bye  and  thank  you."  He  hung  up  the 
phone. 


CHAPTER  XL. 

Duncan  took  his  stand  on  the  platform  in  a  deadly  silence 
and  looked  about  him  on  the  audience  of  his  friends.  He 
was  absolutely  composed.  He  began  calmly,  slowly,  almost 
colorlessly : 

"I  have  looked,  since  I  last  addressed  you,  on  a  tragedy,  a 
tragedy  in  which  a  man  killed  1  is  w'fe  and  unborn  child. 
The  man  was  drunk.  The  man  and  woman  were  my  friends. 
They  were  two,  designed  by  nature,  to  have  lived  long  in  health 
and  happiness  and  -  fruitfulness.  They  leave  two  little  sons 
and  a  daughter  to  want  parents'  care  throughout  life  and  to 
hold  in  memory,  as  their  heritage,  this  hideous  tragedy. 

"Some  people  would  say  I  had  no  part  in  this  tragedy.  I 
had.  It  was  In  my  house  that  the  father  and  husband  took 
his  first  glass.  Before  that  he  had  not  known  what  drink 
was.  He  learned  at  my  father's  table.  In  my  house  we 
gave  him  two  gifts,  wine  and  his  wife,  the  one,  later,  to  slay 
the  other. 

"Before  this  man  came  to  my  house,  before  he  took  his  first 
glass  of  wine  he  was  a  man  of  physical  perfection;  he  was  a 
man  absolutely  moral,  he  was  a  man  with  a  creditable  amount 
of  mentality.  He  loved  his  wife  as  the  best  man  among  you 
loves  his.  I  saw  his  eyes  when  he  kissed  her,  a  bride  in  her 
orange  blossoms  in  my  father's  house.  I  was  only  a  boy, 
but  I  remember  his  eyes  when  he  kissed  her  and  I  knew  in 
that  moment  that  he  loved  her. 

"That  was  ten  years  ago.  For  some  years,  many  years, 
wine  did  not  take  hold  on  him  to  any  visible  effect.  During  that 
time  he  had  worked  hard  and  saved.  He  had  a  little  orchard 
ranch  of  his  own  that  he  worked,  or  hired  worked.  He  had 
become  my  foreman  and  he  gave  me  the  best  service  he  knew. 


326  THE    CLAW 

Children  had  come,  two  little  boys  and  a  little  girl.  They 
were  very  happy,  he  and  his  little  family. 

"Then  the  time  came  when  the  poison  in  the  wine — that  you 
and  I  know  is  in  wine,  in  the  purest  we  sell — began  to  have  its 
effect.  It  was  at  the  time  when  he  was  run  down,  tired, 
worn  in  mind  and  body  from  his  work  in  my  service.  At 
that  time  I  was  away  and  the  social  end  of  my  business  fell 
on  him,  the  responsibility  of  mingling  with  men,  with  my 
friends  and  business  acquaintances,  with  you,  here  tonight. 
It  is  the  custom  among  you,  among  us,  to  show  our  good-will 
and  friendship  for  each  other  with  drink,  the  treats,  beer  and 
wine,  taken  in  friendly  fashion  at  the  bar.  It  was  what  he 
was  called  on  to  do  as  my  representative,  to  show  he  was  one 
among  you.  The  thing  began  to  tell.  From  a  man  of  physical 
perfection  he  became  a  physical  wreck.  From  a  man  of 
mentality  he  became  a  mental  wreck.  From  a  man  of  un 
impeachable  character  he  became  a  man  whose  morals  were 
undermined,  a  drunkard,  a  carouser.  From  a  man  of  industry 
and  a  promising  material  future  he  became  a  loafer  and  gambler 
who  impoverished  his  family  by  his  vicious  habits.  From  a 
man  who  loved  his  wife  and  was  kind  and  generous  in  his 
home,  he  became  abusive,  cruel,  neglectful. 

"From  all  the  splendid  promise  of  his  young  life,  at 
twenty-six,  just  my  age,  he  became  in  ten  years  an  insane, 
maddened  brute  who  slew  his  wife  with  child,  and  left  two 
little  boys  and  a  girl  whose  grief  for  their  father  and  mother 
is  unsupportable.  He  came  to  this,  My  God!"  cried  Duncan, 
his  voice  suddenly  breaking  n  any  agony.  "He  came  to  this 
from  the  wine  he  drank  at  my  table. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  with  me,  you  people,  you  law 
abiding  people  who  make  laws  to  punish  murderers?  What 
are  we  going  to  do,  you  and  I,  who  have  engaged  in  this  deadly 
work  of  raising,  of  making  a  thing  that  begot  this  unspeakable 


THE    CLAW  327 

tragedy?  What  name  shall  we  call  ourselves  if  we  continue 
in  our  work? 

"  'Why/  you  say,  'this  is  madness,  folly;  this  is  the  insanity 
of  conscientiousness  that  involves  the  man  who  grows  the 
grapes,  that  makes  the  wine  in  a  catastrophe  like  this?'  ' 

"Madness?  Insanity?  Call  it  so  if  you  like!  If  you  do, 
it  is  to  refuse  to  look  with  eyes  open  and  honest  on  the  truth, 
to  follow  premise  to  conclusion.  To  be  sure  I  had  not  seen 
it  before,  not  wholly,  though  God  knows  there  have  been  enough 
things  in  my  life  in  the  past  month  to  give  me  pause,  to  help 
me  to  see.  But  I  was  blind,  I  was  prejudiced,  I  was  like 
the  rest  of  you,  proud  of  my  superior  judgment  that  made 
delicate  cleavage  between  my  responsibility  and  another 
man's  ruin,  the  cleavage  dictated  by  self-will,  self-interest. 

"But  now  I  see.  I  have  looked  on  two,  dead — three — at  the 
hand  of  drink.  I  have  looked  in  the  eyes,  God  help  me!  of 
their  children,  three  babies  that  ask  daily  with  reproachful 
faces,  'What  have  you  done  with  my  papa  and  mamma?' 
I  can  no  longer  deceive  myself.  I  am  sick  with  my  grief  and 
the  sense  of  my  awful  responsibility  in  this  terrible  catastrophe. 
Henceforth  I  repudiate  this  thing  in  all  its  forms,  and  I  give 
my  hand  and  my  vote  and  everything  that  is  in  me  to  the 
elimination  of  this  hideous  mistake,  this  criminal  business." 
He  paused  and  not  a  sound  was  heard  but  the  hard  breathing 
of  many  men.  He  went  on. 

"This  is  my  personal  stand,  all  I  have  to  say  for  my  own 
part  in  this  affair.  But  I  remember  that  here,  the  other 
night,  I  not  only  declared  my  stand  at  that  time,  but  I  said 
many  things,  used  many  arguments  to  establish  the  integrity 
of  our  cause;  that  in  printed  form  my  judgment  in  these  matters 
has  gone  out  all  over  the  land  with  intent  to  convince  and 
enlist  in  our  cause.  1  have  visited  chambers  of  commerce, 
merchants'  associations,  all  sorts  of  bodies  of  men  representative 


328  THE    CLAW 

of  the  business  and  industrial  interests  of  this  state,  and  solicited 
their  sympathy  and  support  in  the  name  of  industrial  brother 
hood.  I  want  to  retract  here  and  now  all  such  argument. 
We,  our  industry,  the  wine  industry,  has  nothing  whatever 
in  common  with  the  other  commercial  interests  solicited  and 
has  no  call  for  their  sympathy  and  support. 

"Does  the  product  of  the  orange  ranch,  or  the  peach  orchard, 
the  output  of  the  shoes  and  clothing  factories,  the  meat  in 
the  market  and  the  milk  of  the  dairies — all  the  industrial  and 
the  business  interest  enlisted  by  us — does  their  produce  work 
for  the  consumer  such  results  as  does  the  product  of  the  wine 
grape  vineyard,  the  wineries,  the  distilleries  and  the  saloons? 

"Does  the  consumption  of  oranges,  of  milk  or  meat,  make 
men  lose  their  physical  faculties  and  their  sense  of  right,  make 
them  take  the  money  that  should  go  to  feed  their  wives  and 
children,  to  buy  more  oranges  and  milk  and  meat  for  themselves? 
Does  patronizing  the  dry  goods  store  and  the  grocery  store 
and  the  shoe  factory  incite  to  vice  and  crime?  Was  ever 
a  consumer  of  these  wares  sent  thereby  to  an  early  grave  in 
the  hideous  throes  of  a  last,  fatal  sickness  like  alcoholism? 
Does  these  men's  business  cause  other  men  and  other  business 
to  be  taxed  for  orphans  homes,  reformatories,  asylums,  prisons, 
potter's  fields? 

"  No,  there's  no  possible  comparison  or  likeness  between  the 
liquor  business  and  any  other  lawful  business.  Rather  it  is 
to  be  classed  with  those  activities  of  men  properly  outlawed, 
because  they  prey  on  other  men,  and  it's  rank,  unmitigated 
nerve  and  gall  for  us  to  go  to  those  men  who  are  conducting  a 
business  that  doesn't  lean  hard  on  others,  that  stands  on  its 
own  merits  and  doesn't  prosper  through  other  men's  weakness; 
it's  unspeakable  gall  and  conceit  for  us  to  go  to  them  and  beg 
them  to  come  to  our  aid,  they  who  are  paying  for  our  paupers 


THE     CLAW  329 

and  indigent  while  we  rob  them  of  the  patronage  of  the  man 
whose  wages  goes  over  the  bar  and  into  our  pockets! 

'  'But  we  must  have  the  industry.  We  earn  our  living  by  it, 
we've  got  thousands  in  it.'  Oh  yes,  I  said  it  the  other  night. 
I've  gone  up  and  down  the  valley  saying  it,  and  the  letters 
come  pouring  into  my  office  and  we  run  them  off  on  the  press 
with  the  same  burden  of  argument.  Here  are  some  of  them. 
He  drew  from  his  pocket  a  late  copy  of  the  Association's 
sheet  and  read.  "  'Prosperity  would  be  an  obsolete  word 
in  my  family  for  the  time  if  the  amendment  should  carry.' 
'It  would  knock  me  out  of  two  thousands  of  dollars  every 
year.'  'It  will  destroy  a  great  industry  and  for  me  a  desirable 
revenue.' 

"  'Prosperity  would  be  obsolete  in  my  family,'  but  isn't 
it  an  obsolete  word  in  the  family  of  the  booze  fighters? 

"  'It  wrould  destroy  a  desireable  revenue,'  but  hasn't 
it  destroyed  other  desirable  things  for  thousands  of  people, 
precious  things,  like  home  and  happiness  and  peace  of  mind? 

"  'It  would  knock  me  out  of  two  thousand  dollars  a  year,' 
But  doesn't  it  'knock  out'  a  lot  of  people  annually,  of  a  lot  of 
things  that  belong  to  them,  families  of  their  living,  wives 
of  their  husbands,  children  of  their  opportunities;  the 
opportunities  of  health,  of  a  quiet  and  happy  home?  Hasn't 
it  'knocked'  babies  out  of  the  chance  to  see  life  with  any 
possibility  of  sound  bodies  and  clean  minds?  'Knocked 
out'  unborn  children  like  Elsie's  from  the  gift  of  life  itself? 

"And  yet  we  must  keep  it  up  for  the  'desirable  revenue.' 
This  is  what  we  say,  we  who  boast  of  our  altruistic  age!  This 
is  what  we  say,  men  and  women  of  the  societies  and  secret 
orders  that  exalt  the  ideals  of  brotherhood,  of  the  churches 
that  pretich  self-denial  and  the  sacrifice  for  the  weaker  brother 
for  whom  the  Christ  died! 

"Oh,    I'm    arraigning    myself,    my    friends.     Dou't    forget 


330  THE    CLAW 

that!  I  haven't  a  stone  to  throw  at  other  people.  I  wanted 
to  say  these  things  to  you;  perhaps  it  was  to  ease  the  hurt  a 
bit  in  my  own  breast. 

"And  the  liquor  business  intends  to  stay,  whether  people 
want  it  or  not.  It  intends  to  stay.  The  wine  business.  Why 
we're  just  the  side  show!  We're  just  the  candy  and  gum 
show-case  in  the  front  windows  to  fool  the  public  about  what's 
going  on  in  the  back  room.  But  the  real  business,  the  liquor 
traffic,  the  saloon,  it's  going  to  stay.  How?  By  means  of 
•money.  The  money  of  Blythe  and  men  like  him  of  the  illicit 
and  the  immoral  end  of  the  business. 

"Oh,  we  know  it,  you  and  I,  who,  with  one  hand,  write 
our  smirk  protests  against  the  abuses  inside  the  business 
that  must  be  stopped,  and  with  the  other  reach  behind  our 
backs  for  the  rotten  campaign  money  from  the  saloons,  the 
Chinese  dives  and  the  baudy  houses!  Don't  be  afraid,  I'm 
talking  among  ourselves,  'entre  nous'  you  know,"  added  Duncan 
with  immense  sarcasm. 

"And  how  are  we  going  to  swing  the  votes  at  the  election 
this  fall?  As  we  always  do.  By  rounding  up  all  the  bums 
from  San  Diego  to  the  'Frisco  water-front  for  registration  and 
setting  up  the  drinks  afterwards.  Oh,  no,  I  didn't  learn  this 
all  at  once.  It's  been  a  part  of  my  unused  knowledge,  my 
'unused  increment',  if  you  please — information  deposited  to 
my  credit  (or  discredit),  that  I  didn't  have  any  present  use 
for.  I've  been  calling  it  in  lately.  I've  been  calling  in  all 
the  knowledge  about  this  thing  that  I  could  get  hold  of  and 
looking  at  it  at  last  for  the  hideous  thing  it  is. 

"I  spoke  the  other  night  about  my  father,"  his  voice  went 
suddenly  tender  and  so  low  that  they  could  scarcely  hear  it 
even  in  the  breathless  silence.  "I  made  his  ambitions,  his 
confidence  in  the  business,  part  of  my  argument  and  appeal. 
I  don't  suppose  you  can  hardly  credit  me  with  the  truth  when 


THE    CLAW  331 

I  tell  you  I  didn't  know,  I  positively  didn't  know  till  tonight 
how  he  died,  why  he  died.  I  don't  know  that  I  could  speak 
of  it  now,  if  I  didn't  know  that  you,  his  friends,  knew.  You 
have  ell  been  generous  and  considerate.  You  thought  it  was 
kindness  to  keep  the  secret.  But  I  wish  to  God  some  of 
you  had  told  me.  It  might  have  saved  so  wucbl 

"I  want  to  say  that  that  knowledge  hasn't  changed  my 
love  or  devotion  for  my  father  in  the  least  degree.  It  doesn't 
alter  the  loveableness  of  him,  his  generous  heart,  his  fine, 
splendid  loyalties,  or  his  adherence  to  and  appreciation  of  all 
things  honorable  and  noble,  it  doesn't!"  his  voice  thrilled 
with  passionate  defense.  "But  it  does  prove  two  things: 
that  a  great  and  a  noble  man  can  be  mistaken  in  his  convictions, 
and  that  such  a  man  can  have  weaknesses,  physical  perhaps, 
that  can't  be  overcome  and  must,  therefore,  be  guarded. 
And  if  I  conceive  of  any  duty  that  is  mine  now,  in  the  light  of 
this  discovery  that  has  shocked  and  prostrated  my  heart 
anew,  it  is  this,  that,  as  his  son,  it  is  my  necessity,  in  filial 
loyalty,  to  amend  in  myself  any  tendency  to  a  similar  weakness 
and  to  see  that  in  no  manner  do  I  farther  give  my  hand 
or  influence  to  the  thing  that  laid  him  low. 

"I  thank  you.  I  thank  you  with  all  my  heart  for  your 
generous  friendship  in  the  past,  and  your  proffered  support, 
which  I  cannot  now  accept.  That's  all." 


CHAPTER   XLI. 

He  bowed  gravely  to  the  audience  and  to  the  committee 
on  the  platform  and  turned  into  the  wings  of  the  small  stage. 
Mr.  Cummings  was  there.  Instinctively  his  hand  went  out 
to  him  as  to  a  friend,  but  he  turned  as  though  he  had  not 
seen  him.  Duncan  groped  in  the  wings  for  his  hat.  He 
opened  a  back  door  and  went  out  into  the  street. 

He  had  burned  his  first  bridge,  there  was  a  whole  field  yet 
to  devastate.  Already  he  had  known  the  first  shock  of  the 
bereavements  that  were  to  be  his  in  the  lo^s  of  his  friends. 
His  cheek  burned  at  the  rebuke  he  had  received  from  Mr.  Cum 
mings.  It  didn't  matter,  only  to  have  it  over  with.  It  was  early. 
He  could  accomplish  all,  tonight.  He  would  drive  to  Corinne's. 
Most  likely  she  had  heard  of  his  anticipated  action  from  her 
father  and  would  have  her  reception  of  him  prepared. 

Corinne  was  at  the  rear  of  the  house  in  the  illuminated 
grape  arbor.  He  caught  a  glimpse  of  her  white  dress  and  her 
dainty  foot  swinging  negligently  from  the  hammock.  She 
was,  to  his  vision,  in  her  coolness  and  remoteness  from  the 
tragic  things  of  his  life  the  past  week,  like  a  mountain 
spring  to  the  eye  of  an  exhausted  traveler.  He  could  have 
sunk  down  beside  her  on  the  damp  cool  earth  and  stayed 
there  forever.  He  almost  forgot  his  errand  for  the  moment, 
in  the  delight  of  the  picture  as  he  paused.  A  discarded  book 
lay  in  her  lap.  Her  dainty  fingers  were  teasing  a  diminutive 
kitten  perched  on  the  pillow  beside  her,  its  tiny  provoked 
mouth  wide  to  ensnare  them. 

Corinne  had  not  heard  of  Duncan's  purpose  but  she  was 
irritated  with  him  for  his  failure  to  call  for  a  whole  week, 
he  had  not  seen  her  since  the  tragedy.  He  had  telephoned 
once  only,  to  know  if  the  children  could  stay  with  them  during 


THE    CLAW  333 

the  funeral.  Someone  else  had  brought  them  over  and  she 
had  turned  them  over  to  the  maid.  He  had  not  even  called 
her  up  to  thank  her. 

As  he  approached  a  faint  hope  sprang  up  in  Duncan.  How 
beautiful  she  was,  how  kind!  She  had  been  so  gracious  about 
the  child  en  that  day  and  had  looked  after  them  so  well. 
Her  face  was  now  charmin  and  tender  as  she  gathered  the 
indignant  kitten  into  her  two  hands  and  snuggled  him  under 
her  chin  with  a  little  exclamation  of  endearment.  She  was 
so  human.  Perhaps — why  shouldn't  she  understand,  why 
not  see  all,  as  did  he,  and  with  sweet  and  gracious  spirit  put 
aside  the  disappointment  she  must  feel  in  the  abandonment  of 
his  piospects  and  their  early  marriage,  arid  wait  for  him! 
Wait,  till  when?  Ah,  he  could  not  tell.  His  affairs  were 
surely  in  a  bad  way,  but  wait,  as  women  had  done  before,  as 
heroic  women  will  do  always  for  the  man  they  love. 

"Corinnef" 

She  dropped  the  kitten  precipitately.  His  surprised  catship, 
rightly  accusing  Duncan  as  the  cause  for  his  displacement 
arched  himself  in  cat  spite  and  with  a  violent  "spit"  like  a 
hissing  firecracker  leaped  out  of  sight.  Duncan  laughed  at 
the  absurd  performance  and  striding  to  her  dropped  down  on 
a  stool  at  Corrinne's  side: 

"Jealous,  is  he?  Well  I  certainly  entertained  the  same 
sentiments  when  I  saw  him  the  recipient  of  your  caresses  a 
moment  ago."  She  gave  a  slight  shrug  and  drew  her  light 
scarf  about  her  shoulders. 

"Yes?"  she  said.  "You  have  not  seemed  to  crave  those 
attentions  particularly  yourself.  I  haven't  seen  you  for  a 
week,  dear.  You  must  have  been  occupied?" 

"Occupied!"  he  spoke  in  a  shocked  voice.  "Why  yes,  you 
know  surely,  how  occupied  I  must  have  been.  There  are  so 


334  THE    CLAW 

many  things  to  see  to,  to  think  of  in  a  case  like  that,"  he 
shuddered.  "I  have  been  busy  day  and  night." 

"Oh  I  suppose  so,"  she  said,  indifferently,  "but  I  should 
think  you  might  have  given  me  a  little  thought." 

"A  little  thought,  a  little  thought!  Corinne  I  have  thought 
of  you  day  and  night,  day  and  night.  That's  why  I  came 
here  now,  oh,  Corinne!"  His  voice  broke  suddenly  and  as 
she  looked  at  him  in  surprise  she  saw  that  his  face  was  very 
white  and  his  hair  where  the  light  struck  it,  surely  that  was 
gray  in  his  hair. 

"Well,"  she  said  with  a  grudging  smile,  "you  don't  seem  to 
have  learned  yet  where  to  come  with  your  troubles.  Tell 
them  to  the  right  source  and  they  are  always  settled  for  you, 
you  know."  She  rallied  a  laugh,  but  his  grave  face  held  her. 

"Troubles,  yes,  that's  it!  That's  what  I  came  to  talk  about. 
But  I  don't  know  how  to  begin.  Corinne,  you  must  know 
that  this  frightful  catastrophe  has  made  me  feel  differently 
about  some  things." 

"Some  things?"  she  looked  at  him,  mystified,  and  he  hurried 
on. 

"Yes,  dear,  can't  you  understand?  About  many  things, 
about  drink,  about  the  liquor  business,  our  business."  He 
paused,  gazing  into  her  eyes  with  a  pathetic  hope  of  under 
standing  and  sympathy,  but  they  were  expressionless  but  for 
amazement.  He  hurried  on  recklessly  precipitating  the 
end  in  a  sentence.  "I've  just  come  from  a  meeting  of  the 
wine  growers.  I've  called  off  my  candidacy  for  the  legislature. 
I'm  out  of  the  race,  out  of  the  business,  for  good  and  all." 

"Duncan!" 

He  had  never  heard  such  a  tone  from  her  lips,  her  lips  from 
which  he  had  believed  only  the  tenderest  most  womanly  tones 
came.  The  word  was  a  condensation  of  all  the  amazement, 
disappointment  and  contempt  that  a  selfish  and  defeated 


THE    CLAW  335 

woman  could  express.  It  stung  him  like  a  whip  lash  full 
across  the  face.  She  sprang  to  her  feet  and  her  face  under 
the  electric  globe  was  chalk  white;  her  breast  heaved  as  though 
she  had  been  in  a  race: 

"Well  I  always  knew  you  were  a  sentimental,  slow,  stupid 
fellow  but  I  didn't  suppose  you  equal  to  this.  Why,  you're 
a  fooll  A  fooll"  She  stamped  her  foot,  angrily. 

He  had  risen  and  his  face,  white  before,  was  ghastly,  but 
he  stood  quietly  looking  at  her,  just  looking  at  her. 

"Why  do  you  look  at  me  like  that?"  she  cried.  "Surprised 
arc  you?  Shocked?  Thought  I'd  take  this,  as  I  did  the 
others,  your  crazy  break  with  Blythe,  your  silly  affair  at 
the  Non  Pareil,  thought  I'd  just  accept  all  these  evidences  of 
asinine  ability,  welcome  them  as  the  tokens  of  my  future 
prosperity  with  a  husband  of  your  brain  power?" 

"Good  night,"   he  said  and  turned   on   his  heel. 

Duncan  went  around  the  house  and  down  the  walk  to  the 
gate,  in  passing  the  veranda  steps  he  stooped  under  the  over 
hanging  branch  that  had  caught  Corinne's  hair  the  night  he 
kissed  her.  It  was  swaying  out  across  the  walk  now.  He 
moved  it  aside  mechanically  with  his  hand  as  he  passed,  and 
he  remembered. 

He  went  out  the  large  arched  gate.  Corinne's  little  spaniel 
slipped  out  after  him  and  fell  with  demonstrative  caresses 
upon  him.  He  turned  and  put  him  gently  through  the  gate 
again  and  saw  his  sad,  disappointed  dog  eyes  watch  him  as 
he  turned  away.  He  went  on  across  the  road  and  up  to  the 
house.  He  did  all  things  as  though  he  had  come  from  Corinne's 
after  an  evening  of  pleasant  ordinary  intercourse.  He  was 
like  a  man  that  is  deathly  wounded  and  knows  it,  knows  that 
when  he  takes  away  the  hand  that  stays  and  staunches  for 
the  moment  that  the  life  blood  will  gush  from  him  and  he 
will  fall. 


330  THE    CLAW 

He  went  into  the  house  and  up  to  his  room.  His  mother 
heard  him  come  in.  She  had  known  he  was  to  be  present  at 
a  meeting  but  of  the  nature  of  it  she  was  ignorant.  Duncan 
had  not  told  her  of  the  storm  that  had  possessed  his  brain 
since  the  night  of  the  murder.  It  is  a  strange  thing  that 
often  "nearest  of  kin"  may  sit  hours  or  a  lifetime  beside  another 
and  never  know  or  sense  the  death  throes  that  are  going  on 
within  his  heart  and  brain.  But  Duncan's  outward  appearance, 
his  haggard  face  and  haunted  eyes  might  easily  have  been 
interpreted  as  the  result  of  the  shock  received  from  the  tragedy. 

He  had  not  told  his  mother  of  the  step  he  contemplated. 
Something  told  him  his  will  might  be  weakened  and  even 
love  of  his  mother  must  not  be  allowed  to  change  his  course. 
Yet  another  thing  had  prevented.  One  of  the  most  pathetic 
of  human  griefs  is  the  first  discovery  by  a  child  of  fault  in 
a  loved  parent.  It  is  a  discovery  that  must  come  to  all, 
since  parenthood  does  not  involve  perfection.  To  few  is  the 
discovery  reserved  until  so  late  as  with  Duncan.  He  had 
vaguely  acknowledged  failings  in  his  father,  lovable  failings 
mostly.  The  knowledge  of  his  father's  weakness  was  the 
first  to  vitally  mar  that  dear  image.  Simultaneous  with  it 
was  a  more  serious  and  painful  revelation.  His  father,  his 
mother,  alike  had  been  guilty  of  a  great  remissness  toward 
him,  an  error  in  judgment  fraught  with  terrible  and  far  reaching 
consequences.  He  could  understand  their  thought  toward 
him,  to  spare  him  the  pain,  the  disappointment  'of  that 
knowledge,  but  therein  lay  the  crux  of  his  disillusionment; 
the  element  of  selfishness  had  entered  into  their  motives, 
unconsciously  no  doubt,  but  it  was  there.  To  preserve 
Cameron's  pride,  to  spare  his  humiliation  while  alive,  to 
reserve  his  memory  as  the  worshipped  and  adored  object  it 
was,  that  too,  was  the  motive  involved  in  their  denial,  delicate, 


THE    CLAW  337 

subtle;  many  would  not  have  sensed  it.  Duncan  did  with 
a  poignancy  exaggerated  by  the  recent  tragedy. 

If  he  had  only  known!  If  he  had  only  known!  He  might 
have  saved  Morton,  by  counsel,  by  kind  words,  if  he  had 
approached  him  with  compassion,  with  pardon  instead,  as 
he  did,  with  a  brutal  fist.  His  mind  writhed  in  the  agony 
of  the  thought. 

It  was  this  feeling  of  disappointment,  of  deep  and  unexpressed 
hurt  toward  his  mother  that  helped  to  seal  his  characteristically 
reserved  lips  and  cause  him  to  leave  till  the  last,  till  things 
were  irretreviably  settled,  the  intelligence  of  his  break  with 
his  friends,  with  his  material  prospects,  with  Corinne.  Yet 
now,  when  all  others  had  cast  him  off,  he  had  the  wistfulness 
of  the  little  boy.  He  wanted  his  mother's  comfort,  his  mother's 
arms. 

She  came  at  last  as  he  lay  stretched  across  his  bed.  He  had 
not  undressed.  The  whole  meaning  of  Corinne's  dismissal 
had  taken  him  and  he  groaned  in  his  anguish.  Here  too, 
was,  bitterness  beyond  bitterness;  Corinne,  the  beautiful, 
the  cherished,  the  altogether  lovely,  to  have  throwrl  off  the 
guise  and  in  her  vulgar  railings,  shown  herself  the  common 
woman. 

His  mother  approached  the  door  on  her  way  to  her  room. 
She  paused  at  his  threshold  with  surprise,  the  light  from 
the  hall  falling  across  the  bed. 

"Duncan,  what  ails  ye,  are  ye  sick?" 

"Yes,  I'm  sick  mother,  so  sick  I  could  die!"  She  came 
in  with  concern,  and  seated  herself  on  the  bed  by  him. 

"Ye  mustn't  grieve  yirsel'  sae  aboot  that,  it's  awfu'  an' 
beyond  words  but  it  cudna  be  helped.  We  done  wh'  we 
cud."  He  shuddered  but  reached  out  and  found  her  hand. 

"It  isn't  that,  altogether.  Oh  I  am  very  selfish  that  I 
should  care,  or  have  a  thought  for  myself  in  the  face  of  this 


338  THE    CLAW 

other  thing.  But  I'm  sore  hurt,"  there  were  times  when 
Duncan  unconsciously  framed  his  mother's  phrases.  "Listen 
mother." 

He  told  her  all.  His  anguish  of  mind  over  his  sense  of 
personal  responsibility,  his  doubt  concerning  his  father, 
occasioned  by  Morton's  words,  his  visit  to  the  doctor  and  the 
confirmation.  She  started  at  that  and  drew  her  hand  away 
from  his. 

"He  shouldna'  hae  told  ye!"  she  said,  in  a  strange  voice. 

"Oh  yes  he  should,  indeed  he  should,  mother.  I  should 
have  known.  Oh,  I  wish  to  God  I  had  .known  long  ago!" 

Then  he  hurried  on,  telling  of  his  resignation  of  the  secretary 
ship,  telling  of  the  night's  meeting  and  his  speech  and  with 
drawal,  of  Corinne.  He  paused.  He  was  very  tired,  but 
it  was  done,  the  last  hard  thing  accomplished  and  he  would 
have  his  mother's  forgiveness  now,  and  her  comfort.  He 
waited  for  her.  He  waited  a  moment. 

"Mother?"  his  voice  held  surprise.  She  rose  then,  swiftly, 
and  turned  toward  the  door,  the  light  from  the  hall  on  her 
face  showed  it  very  white  and  sharp. 

"Mother!"  he  cried,  in  concern,  starting  toward  her.  Then 
she  turned. 

"Say  nae  word,  lad!"  she  cried  harshly.  "Ye  canna  say 
mair,  ye  hae  done  it  noo,  deserted  yir  farther  an'  me  an'  yir 
faither's  friends,  deserted  the  chances  ye  had  to  mak'  a  p;reat 
man  o'  yirsel'  an'  honor  t'  yir  faither's  name  and  to  his  family. 
Whist,  away!"  as  his  arms  implored  her.  "There's  naething 
mair  to  be  said."  She  swept  past  him  and  up  the  stairs. 
Duncan  fell  forward  on  his  knees  beside  the  bed  and  the  night 
was  very  dark. 

He  roused  in  the  early  morning  from  exhausted  sleep, 
following  hours  of  waking  anguish.  As  consciousness  with 
its  bitter  realities  broke  upon  him  he  felt  one  desire,  one  craving, 


THE    CLAW  339 

the  hills — the  hills — oh,  the  healing  of  the  hills!  The  wide 
clean  hills,  the  lonely  hills,  where  no  human  faces  looked. 
The  hills,  the  free  hills,  where  loads  drop  from  one  and  breath 
comes  deep.  He  must  seek  them  if  but  for  a  day,  a  few  hours. 

He  knew  the  way  he  would  take,  and  the  place;  the  old 
trail  up  to  Welches'  summit  cabin.  It  stood  alone,  isolated, 
where  the  view  swept  the  who  e  valley  to  the  right  and  left. 
Below  were  the  places  of  the  summer  people  that  lolled  in 
their  hammocks  and  waited  for  the  Saturday  night  tango 
parties.  They  were  too  indolent  to  find  this  spot,  to  climb 
to  this  noble  outlook  where  the  free  winds  from  east  and  west, 
blew.  It  was  a  place  all  his  own,  or  rather,  Marlinee's  first 
and  his  afterwards.  Formerly  old  Welch,  the  girl's  uncle, 
had  invited  his  family's  use  of  it  whenever  desire  called.  It 
went  with  the  other  possessions  willed  to  Marlinee  and  she 
had  renewed  the  informal  arrangement.  It  was  his  favorite 
haunt  when  rare  opportunity  offered.  He  would  go  there  now. 
He  must  go.  Here  in  the  valley  he  would  go  mad  from  the 
conflict  of  his  distracted  life,  the  confusion  of  arraigning  voices 
that,  turn  whichever  way  he  would,  accused  him  of  neglect, 
of  mischoice.  Even  Marlinee  had  deserted  him,  Marlinee 
who  would  know,  who  would  understand.  He  had  not  seen 
her  since  the  first  day  after  the  tragedy.  Where  was  she? 
He  wanted  her. 

He  set  out  on  foot  under  a  scorching  sun.  He  did  not  mind. 
The  heat  rays  burned  through  his  thin  shirt  to  his  fevered 
body,  it  was  a  counter  irritant  to  the  wounds  he  carried.  He 
was  glad  for  the  breath  of  the  open,  the  smell  of  desert  and 
the  wash,  of  the  resinous  weeds  ripening  in  the  scorch  of  the 
summer.  Before  him  the  blue  rim  of  the  mountains  rose, 
cool,  remote,  the  trees  jagged  against  the  sky. 

He  tramped  all  day  and  half  the  night  and  when  the  moon 
had  pushed  its  slow  way  at  last  up  the  back  of  the  ridge  and 


340  THE    CLAW 

found  Welch's  little  shelf  and  clearing  Duncan  had  gained 
the  cabin.  He  threw  off  his  pack.  He  loosened  and  cast 
his  belt  from  him.  He  fell,  too  weary  for  thought  or  food, 
across  the  cabin  bunk,  sound  asleep. 


CHAPTER  XLII. 

Marlinee  turned  in  her  last  page  of  copy,  detailing  the 
doings  of  the  Rescherche  club  at  their  final  pre-vacation 
dansant.  Society  and  mankind  in  general  went  its  way  as 
though  tragedy  did  not  exist. 

Oh,  it  was  a  brutal  world!  Men  and  women  moved  on 
uncaring,  unseeing,  while  their  kind  dropped  by  the  way,  by 
accident  or  sickness  or  hideous  catastrophe.  They  swept  on, 
voicing  their  petty  concerns;  tango  parties  and  household 
helps,  ambitions  for  a  place  in  the  sporting  column  or  a  seat 
in  the  senate.  They  were  like  beasts,  like  the  lowest  swarm 
of  created  things  that,  gathering  to  the  food  morsel,  tracks 
across  its  dead.  In  the  office,  while  her  eyes  still  saw  Elsie's 
dead  face  and  her  ears  still  heard  the  sobs  of  Elsie's  little  ones, 
there  was  laughter,  the  gossip  of  the  candidates  and  wagers 
on  the  afternoon  game.  Ah,  she  could  not  stand  it!  This 
was  her  last  story,  the  Rescherche  Club,  and  she  would  be  gone 
on  a  short  vacation  McWhirter,  in  view  of  her  white  face  and 
trembling  hands,  had  granted  her. 

She  flipped  the  sheet  from  her  typewriter  roller  and  jabbed 
it  on  the  copy  hook.  She  swept  her  desk  clean  of  its  disorder, 
shut  and  locked  her  drawer  and  hurried  to  the  dressing  room. 
She  caught  up  her  suit-case  and  ran  out  of  the  building  to  the 
car.  Already  as  she  sat  in  the  open,  the  wind  sweeping  her 
hot  face,  she  felt  relief,  rest.  She  was  free!  Tomorrow  she 
would  face  away  to  the  hills,  her  prime  tonic  and  renewer, 
the  place  where  always  sanity  and  sleep,  poise  and  patience, 
returned  to  her  no  matter  in  what  condition  of  need  she  sought 
them. 

Not  hers  the  conventional  outing;  a  seat  in  the  auto  stage, 
somebody's  smoke  in  front  of  her  obscuring  the  view,  and 


342  THE    CLAW 

the  smell  of  the  motor  filling  her  nostrils;  a  bedroom  in  some 
popular  inn,  boasting  the  over  done  artistry  of  the  ordinary 
mountain  resort.  Instead,  her  broncho,  "Mischief,"  a  canteen 
and  blankets  at  her  back;  her  destination — Well,  a  woman 
can't  quite  sleep  alone  of  nights  on  a  mountain  road!  She 
would  have  to  stop  with  people  at  some  of  the  camps,  accept 
the  hospitality  urged  by  some  of  her  friends,  already,  to  use 
Society's  distorted  phrase,  " vacationing." 

Glad  would  be  safe  with  Mammy.  Duncan?  She  had  not 
seen  him  since  the  day  of  the  funeral  and  then  not  to  speak 
to  him.  Their  hands  had  met  in  the  last  sad  service  for  the 
dead  as  they  laid,  each  in  his  own  tribute,  with  blinded  eyes 
in  the  cold  hands. 

Each  had  thought,  surely,  each  had  thought  the  same 
things.  One  instant  covert  gl?nce  at  Duncan's  set  face  and 
she  could  have  sworn  that  at  last  sight,  vision,  with  its  awful 
accompaniment  of  remorse  had  come.  But  the  following  day 
she  read  of  the  call  for  the  wine  men's  meeting  and  his  name — 
Cameron — announced  to  repeat  to  a  larger  and  more  representa 
tive  meeting,  his  declarations  of  the  night  before  the  tragedy; 
the  night  before  the  tragedy  when  he  had  given  his  hand  and 
all  that  was  in  him  to  this  thing,  to  the  exploitation  of  the 
thing  that  had  slain  Elsie  and  made  a  murderer  and  suicide 
of  Morton. 

And  he  could  do  this.  He  could  take  up  his  work  again, 
delayed  a  moment  in  order  to  bury  the  dead — the  dead  of  his 
business!  Well,  it  was  the  last.  It  was  over!  All  in  her  that 
had  climbed  and  clung  to  the  figure  of  Duncan  in  love,  in 
devotion,  in  loyalty  and  hope,  fell  with  the  crash  of  the  image 
itself.  Ah,  she  must  get  away,  forget — forget  that  he  had  ever 
been,  that  such  weakness,  such  blindness,  such  persistent, 
voluntary,  shameful  selfishness  could  live  in  a  form  of  such 
deceiving  beauty,  strength  and  promise  as  that  of  Duncan! 


THE    CLAW  343 

She  must  go.  This  week  no  doubt,  or  soon,  the  office  must 
announce  his  engagement  to  Corinne.  In  the  announcement 
of  his  alliance  with  the  vain  and  wordly  woman,  was  involved 
the  last  commitment  of  himself  to  that  course  which  bespoke 
absolute  self-seeking  above  all  other  and  higher  clains. 

How  long  she  had  hoped  for  Duncan,  prayed  for  him! 
Not  to  possess  him — though  her  heart  was  wholly  his.  What 
she  had  told  Elsie  had  been  true.  She  would  never  marry 
any  man  between  whom  and  herself,  her  convictions  of  right 
stood.  It  was  not  a  voluntary  thing,  her  determination,  but 
something  innate  and  fundamental  for  which  she  was  not 
responsible.  There  are  some  things  stronger  than  love  or 
hate,  than  any  personal  emotion.  These  are  the  inherited 
things,  the  loyalties,  the  principals  and  convictions  that  are 
men's,  made  ready  to  wear  as  it  were,  and  which  are  reinforced 
by  their  own  conclusions,  reached  by  inherited  roads  of  reason 
ing. 

In  Marlinee  this  passion  of  principal  was  developed  to  an 
unusual  degree.  She  came  from  a  line  of  men  and  women  of 
convictions,  her  knowledge  of  her  father  and  of  his  career  in 
vested  self-sacrifice  and  service  to  others  with  the  value  of 
first  importance. 

That  thing  that  stood  in  her  eyes  r,s  the  synonym  of  all 
selfishness,  to  her  keen  judgments  whose  deductions  were 
made  in  a  man's  world,  as  the  embodiment  of  egotistic  greed, 
was  the  liquor  business.  The  man  who  chose  the  liquor  busi 
ness  with  its  imposition  of  human  suffering,  as  the  way  to  his 
livelihood,  and  prosperity  was  a  man  between  whom  and 
herself  there  could  be  no  possible  compromise.  Duncan  was 
such  a  man — but  not  in  heart — she  had  thought,  she  had  been 
sure.  His  convictions  were  wholly  imposed;  some  day  he  would 
throw  them  off  and  his  own  personality  would  emerge  with 
vigorous  new  judgments  and  independent  conclusions  and 


344  THE    CLAW 

alliances.  Then  he  would  be  a  new  man  taking  the  place  in 
the  world  of  one  who  realizes  his  responsibilities. 

She  had  hoped,  she  had  prayed,  and  this  had  come!  She 
did  not  blame  God.  Her  biology  and  her  theology  were 
curiously  interlinked  but  this  time  neither  was  accountable 
for  Duncan's  action.  It  was  his  own  independent  choice. 
He  had  looked  at  both  arguments.  He  could  not  have  helped 
but  see,  in  the  face  of  these  terrible  evidences,  and  he  had 
deliberately  chosen  his  way. 

Ah — the  pain  of  it  was  greater  than  her  own  personal  loss, 
the  loss  that  she  knew  from  the  first  must  be  hers  if  Duncan 
took  this  way.  She  was  so  conscious  that  it  might  have  been 
otherwise,  that  she  might  have  lost  Duncan,  the  Duncan  she 
had  hoped  him  to  be,  but  not  Duncan  himself.  She  was  vividly 
conscious  of  the  things  within  her  made  to  attract,  to  hold 
love;  things  that  drew  other  men  to  her.  She  knew  Duncan's 
frank  affection  and  his  dependence  upon  her.  She  knew  more. 
Her  woman's  cleverness  told  her  just  what  small  concession 
what  slight  relinquishments,  how  small  an  assumption  of  the 
worldly  charm,  practised  by  Corinne,  and  assumed  by  herself 
would  serve  to  convert  that  affection  and  dependence  into 
conquest. 

She  desired  him.  How  she  desired  him!  But  that  stern 
thing  within  her  soul  forbade  her.  She  stretched  her  arms 
wistfully  toward  him  across  the  barrier  while  he  was  yet  fair 
and  hopeful  in  his  indecision  of  life,  but  when  he  rose  from 
that  hour  they  had  shared  together  beside  the  dead  with  his 
purpose  formed  and  unmovable,  she  turned  tear-blinded  and 
groping  to  the  Power  within,  grateful  it  was  herself,  her  un 
compromising  greater  self,  that  had  withheld  her. 

Mischief,  the  broncho,  heard  it  all,  poured  into  his  soft, 
quivering  ears  as  they  paused  at  the  canyon  spring  for  a  drink. 
He  munched  the  wet  grass  beside  the  trough  enterprisingly 


THE    CLAW  345 

and  listened  with  quite  as  much  real  attention  as  some  polite 
humans  give.  Marlinec  had  slipped  from  the  saddle  to 
stretch  and  rest  herself.  She  pressed  close  to  the  warm  should 
ers  and  laid  her  face  against  the  soft  nose  of  Mischief  as  she 
talked.  She  drew  there-from  a  sense  of  companionship  and 
sympathy. 

"But  there — I  don't  believe  after  all  that  you  were  listening 
I  don't  believe  you  know  a  thing  I  said,"  sighed  the  girl,  as 
the  broncho  reached  suddenly  for  a  far  and  tempting  weed. 
"Oh,  Mischief,  'et  tu  Brute!'  That's  a  pun,  dear."  She 
climbed  wearily  into  the  saddle  again. 

Marlinee  visited  Camp  No.  1  and  Camp  No.  2  of  the  "Jolly 
Timers"  with  whom  she  was  socially  allied.  She  rode  on  to 
the  big  hotel  beginning  these  days  to  seethe  with  the  first  sum 
mer  gaieties.  At  the  hotel  the  evening  stage  came  in  with 
the  valley  papers.  She  had  turned  her  back  from  the  valley 
and  journalism  three  days  before  with  the  feeling  that  she  never 
wanted  to  see  either  again,  but  such  was  the  grip  of  civiliza 
tion  that  here  she  was  out  with  the  rest,  out  to  meet  the  auto 
mobile  and  get  the  news. 

She  bought  a  cop}'  of  the  Journal  and  withdrew  to  a  corner 
of  the  hotel  veranda  under  an  electric  light,  to  read.  The  first 
words  her  eyes  fell  upon  were  the  headlines  announcing  Duncan's 
withdrawal  from  the  assembly  race.  She  gave  an  exclamation 
and  stared  at  them.  She  read  them  over  and  fell  feverishly 
on  the  story.  It  was  sensational,  giving  full  details  and 
quotations  from  the  adress.  It  excused  absence  of  an  inter 
view  on  the  ground  that  Mr.  Cameron  could  not  be  located. 

He  had  left  early  on  a  two  days  trip — just  where  it 
could  not  be  learned. 

Duncan — Duncan  had  seen,  had  repudiated  his  former  busi 
ness — broken  with  his  old  associates — thrown  over  the  assembly 
man's  race!  It  had  come!  Duncan  was  a  new  man!  An 


346  THE    CLAW 

emotion  so  great  that  it  seemed  her  body  could  not  bear  it, 
took  her.  She  dropped  her  head  on  the  porch  rail  and  in  the 
seclusion  of  her  corner  she  sobbed  for  very  happiness  as  if  her 
heart  would  break. 

When  the  paroxysm  of  her  reaction  was  over  she  grasped 
another  thought.  It  was  not  usual  for  the  afternoon  paper  to 
play  up  like  a  new  story,  one  that  fell  to  the  morning  paper  and 
McWhirter  had  played  this  one  up  in  his  best  style,  on  the 
front  page.  What  did  that  mean? 

She  ran  and  bought  the  morning  papers  from  the  news  stand, 
and  scanned  them.  The  Sun  had  a  brief  account  of  the  meet 
ing  without  details,  merely  stating  the  surprise  of  the  wine 
men  in  the  announcement  of  Cameron  and  his  withdrawal  of 
his  candidacy.  The  other,  Blythe's  sheet,  overflowed  across 
two  columns  with  a  lurid  account  of  the  "traitor  to  the  cause." 
Both  had  acted  in  the  interest  of  their  constituients,  the  for 
mer  the  better  class  of  wine  grape  men  and  their  sympathizers, 
the  latter,  Blythe,  showing  his  hand  again,  with  the  backing 
of  the  liquor  men,  enraged  by  Duncan's  daring. 

And  McWhirter — McWhirter  had  come  out  for  the  Drys! 
There  could  be  no  other  explanation.  In  fact,  the  matter 
was  settled  when  she  turned  to  the  editorial  page.  In  an  edi 
torial  bearing  the  unmistakeable  marks  of  McWhirter's 
inimitable  pen,  was  a  splendid  and  fearless  enunciation  of  the 
paper's  new  policy.  The  rumors  she  had  heard  before  leaving . 
the  office  were  true.  McWhirter  had  bought  the  controlling 
interest  from  the  editor-in-chief,  Morrison,  whose  growing 
invalidism  necessitated  his  retirement,  and  the  first  issue  under 
the  new  management  announced  his  new  and  changed  con 
victions. 

This  was  joy  on  joy  and  Marlinee  for  very  happiness  slept 
little  that  night.  There  is  the  proverbial  "last  straw"  to  an 
excess  of  that  quality  as  to  an  excess  of  its  contrary,  and  Mar- 


THE    CLAW  347 

lince  knew  it  in  the  letter  she  received  next  morning  from  Norris. 
It  was  written  on  copy  paper  and  occupied  an  envelop  of  the 
largest  office  size,  the  pertinent  admonition  on  the  cover  being 
"Eat  Raisins!"  It  detailed  in  one  paragraph  all  the  news  of 
the  office  for  the  past  four  days  ending  with  the  postscript — 
like  a  mere  afterthought — like  one  of  the  most  inconsequential 
things  in  the  world. 

"Oh,  yes,  Duncan  and  Corinne  are  busted  so  I  don't  get  the 
job  of  writing  up  their  society  'funeral.'  Duncan  is  Dry, 
now,  so  Marlinee,  go  to  it!  I  always  did  want  to  see  you  win 
out." 

"The  impudent  little  rascal!"  cried  Marlinee,  and  her  nose 
went  into  the  air,  but  her  heart  was  beating  against  her  side  as 
though  it  would  break  through.  All  night  long  in  the  back 
of  her  brain  while  her  heart  raised  it  inexpressible  praise  for 
Duncan,  the  thought  worded  itself,  "And  what  of  Corinne?" 
and  her  breath  came  short  at  the  thought.  "Ah — I  must  not 
think  of  it — I  must  not,"  she  told  herself  "This  is  enough, 
to  see  character  grow  in  Duncan;  insight,  independence,  cour 
age  and  the  spirit  of  big  self  denial."  It  was  enough;  she  thank 
ed  God  for  that.  But  now — 


CHAPTER  XLIII 

Early,  Marlinee  turned  her  pony's  nose  up  the  trail  to  the 
cabin.  The  hotel  could  not  hold  her  and  her  joy.  She  wanted 
to  get  away — away  from  the  people — in  a  large  place  by  her 
self,  where  she  could  voice  her  raptuie.  There  on  the  broad 
flat,  or  in  the  little  thicket  behind  she  would  build  her  an  altar, 
perhaps,  like  the  happy  people  of  old  and  offer  on  it  her  sacrifice 
of  thanksgiving  for  Duncan — Duncan  and  his  new  vision. 

She  could  not  ride — it  was  too  slow.  She  slipped  from  the 
saddle  and  trudged  along  beside  the  broncho,  her  shoulder  to 
his,  her  face  pressed  againts  his,  while  she  whispered — 

"Mischief — Mischief — do  you  hear,  Honey?  Duncan  has 
changed.  He's  seen  a  light — he's  thrown  it  all  over — all  of 
it!  Oh  Mischief — do  you  hear  me?"  She  took  his  face  be 
tween  her  hands  and  drew  it  to  her  till  she  could  see  herself 
in  his  two  great  eyes. 

"Mischief — do  you  hear?  Then  answer — say  something — 
show  me  you're  glad — or  I — I'll  just  burst  with  gladness, 
myself!"  A  sunflower  she  had  tucked  in  her  khaki  blouse 
tickled  his  nose,  he  wrinkled  it  and  showed  his  teeth  with  a 
surprising  semblance  of  a  broad  horse  smile  and  she  kissed 
him. 

"You  dear!"  she  said  in  sobbing  breath. 

She  was  full  of  a  great  merriment — she  ran  ahead  of  him 
laughing.  She  sang  snatches  of  rolicking  songs,  she  whistled 
till  she  had  all  the  birds  along  the  trail  answering  and  once, 
with  an  indra\vn  breath  she  dropped  on  her  knees  in  the  path — 
she  could  not  wait  for  the  heights  and  the  stone  altar.  She 
dropped  her  face  in  her  hands  and  then  cast  it  bck  full  in  the 
face  of  the  sun— "Oh  God,  Oh  God,  Thank  You!  Thank  You! 
Thank  You!" 


THE    CLAW  349 

When  she  reached  the  flat  she  rode  into  a  little  shady  thicket 
nearby,  She  threw  the  lines  over  Mischief's  head  to  the 
ground,  which  for  a  well  bred  broncho  means  as  good  as  tied. 
She  slipped  from  the  saddle,  and  shook  down  her  short  riding 
breeches  and  stretched  one  cramped  leg  and  then  the  other 
luxuriously — she  had  ridden  the  last  hour.  Then  she  ran 
down  the  slope  toward  the  house;  ran  and  slid  like  a  little 
boy  on  the  smooth  pine  needles  and  dashed  up  breathless  to 
the  cabin  door. 

Welch  had  never  locked  his  cabin  and  Marlinee  followed  the 
same  code.  Anybody  was  welcome  to  its  hospitality,  sought 
at  the  end  of  one  of  the  hardest  trails  on  the  mountains.  It 
was  an  ideal  spot  for  her  occasional  outings,  utterly  isolated, 
yet  the  camps  were  so  near,  below,  that  she  could  almost 
have  dropped  a  pebble  from  her  doorstep  into  them  and  the 
voice  of  their  night  rollickings  reached  her  on  the  breeze.  She 
would  stay  here  today,  tonight,  she  was  not  afraid;  she  was 
accustomed  to  going  about  alone  in  a  city  of  men  which  held 
far  more  threat  than  this  lovely  spot  in  the  heart  of  God's 
hills.  Then,  too,  she  carried  a  bright,  quick  actioned  little 
thing  in  her  belt,  and  she  knew  how  to  use  it. 

She  dashed  open  the  door.  The  bright  rays  of  the  morning  sun 
revealed  dust  and  disorder — and  a  man's  form  lying  prone  on 
the  cot  across  from  the  table.  She  started  back,  her  hand  in 
voluntarily  seeking  her  belt,  but  the  next  moment  it  had  slipped 
to  her  bosom  where  her  heart  leaped  up  and  back  and  left  her 
faint. 

"Duncan!" 

Oh! — was  he  dead? — had  he  killed  himself?"  was  her  first 
awful  thought  and  she  reached  him — her  knees  nearly  failing 
under  her.  "Duncan!" 

She  laid  her  hand  fearfully  on  him  but  his  great  back  heaved 


350  THE    CLAW 

in  strong  and  regular  respirations.  He  was  not  dead.  He  was 
not  hurt — perhaps  he  was  sick.  How  did  he  come  there? 

"Duncan?"  she  called  in  great  wonderment,  but  softly  that 
she  might  not  rouse  him  too  quickly.  "Duncan,  what's  the 
matter,  how  did  you  get  here?"  He  moved,  groaned,  with 
the  impatience  of  a  tired  man,  and  fell  back  into  sleep.  She 
looked  on  him  with  a  great  amazement  and  tenderness.  How 
haggard  he  was  in  spite  of  his  great  strength,  how  worn,  and 
his  temples — gray?  Why,  Duncan  had  not  been  gray  before — 
gray  streaking  his  bright  hair  everywhere — Duncanl  How  he 
must  have  suffered! 

She  would  not  wake  him,  he  was  tired — tired  out.  That 
was  why  he  had  come — to  get  away.  To  get  away,  as  she 
had  done.  She  laughed  a  trembling  little  laugh,  full  of  wonder. 
She  sat  down  beside  him.  She  would  wait  till  he  woke.  In 
a  moment  she  would  go  and  get  her  saddle  bags  with  her  light 
provisions  in  them.  He  had  had  no  breakfast — nothing  in 
the  cabin  was  disturbed.  She  would  have  breakfast  all  ready 
for  him  when  he  awoke. 

She  rose  with  a  great  gladness,  but  he  stirred,  roused,  sat 
up  and  stared  about  him  confusedly.  She  turned  and  waited — 
she  could  not  have  spoken.  He  looked  at  her  at  last,  stupidly, 
with  eyes  that  failed  to  see,  to  understand.  He  drew  his  hand 
across  his  head  and  got  up,  then  his  hands  went  out: 

"Marlinee — Marlinee!"  he  cried.  "What — where  am  1?" 
Then  memory  struck  across  his  dazed  brain  and  he  staggered 
to  a  chair  and  dropped  into  it,  a  great  groan  falling  from  him. 
She  was  at  his  side. 

"Duncan!  You  are  hurt — or  sick!  Tell  me — what  can  I 
do  for  you?" 

"Oh  nothing,  nothing!"  he  shook  his  head.  "Child — how 
did  you  get  here?"  He  spoke  like  an  old  man,  an  old,  broken 
man, 


THE    CLAW  351 

"No — don't—  '  as  she  put  her  hands  on  him  in  concern. 
"Don't  worry.  It's  nothing  that  can  be  helped — now!  It's  all 
past  and  gone  and  too  late — "  he  groaned.  "I've  been  weak — 
I've  been  blind —  and  in  my  blindness  terrible  things  have 
happened.  Antonio,  Morton,  Elsie — the  eyes  of  the  dead  and 
the  living  alike  reproach  me.  Oh  My  God— I  wish  I  could  die!" 
His  head  fell  forward  in  his  arms  and  great  sobs  shook  him. 

She  stood  speechless,  overwhelmed.  The  grief  of  a  strong 
man  is  a  pitiful  thing,  the  grief  of  this  man — Duncan — the 
strong,  the  tender,  the  bearer  of  other  peoples  griefs  and  woes 
was  unbearable.  Her  heart  was  wrung  at  the  sight  of  his 
overthrow,  it  was  insupportable.  The  tears  dropped  slowly 
through  his  fingers — tears  from  Duncan?  She  could  not 
have  it! 

"Dear,"  she  cried,  "you  must  not — this  is  madness!  You 
must  not  blame  yourself  so — you  must  not  involve  yourself 
like  this  in  things  for  which  you  were  not  responsible.  You 
are  not  to  blame.  You  were  conscientious  in  your  convic 
tions  and  your  conduct  was  guided  by  them  and  even  your  con 
victions  were  not  your  own — they  wrere  imposed!"  she  cried, 
indignantly.  "You  hava  never  had  anything  of  your  own. 
Oh,  I  know — your  life — your  thoughts— your  choices,  were 
made  for  you.  You  are  not  to  be  condemned  for  that — you 
are  not\"  Her  hands  went  out  to  him.  Duncan  took  them  in 
a  grip  that  hurt  but  he  groaned. 

"No,  no,  you  mustn't  say  that.  You  mustn't  lend  me 
defense.  I  have  made  fearful  mistakes  and  I  must  suffer  for 
them — even  now  when  I  would  make  up  for  them.. when  I 
tried  to  make  up  for  them — I  brought  suffering  on  myself  and 
others,  on  Mr.  Cummings — Corinne —  It's  all  over — it's 
no  matter  about  that — but  my  mother,  even  she  don't  under 
stand.  She  suffers.  She  thinks  I  have  disgraced  my  father 
now — and —  His  big  hand  closed  as  though  a  spasm  of 


352  THE    CLAW 

physical  pain  took  him — "that  does  for  me!"  His  head  went 
down  on  the  table  again  and  his  shoulders  shook  with  grief 
that  found  no  utterance. 

Marlinee  stood  silent,  her  whole  being  going  out  to  comfort 
and  heal  this  boy— this  great  boy!  Oh,  to  take  him  in  her 
arms — and  comfort  him.  She  would  comfort  him — he  was 
hers — even  his  mother  had  cast  him  off.  Whose  the  right 
now,  but  hers,  to  comfort  and  defend — to  bring  his  broken 
mind  and  spirit  back  to  peace  and  sanity!  All  her  love,  the 
impulse  of  her  sex  rose  within  her.  She  laid  her  arm  across 
his  shoulder  and  drew  him  to  her  with  a  jesture  of  possession, 
of  inexpressible  tenderness  and  protection.  "Dear!"  her  voice 
held  a  poignant  hurt.  She  laid  her  face  close  to  his.  "Listen 
dear,"  she  said. 

She  was  calm  now — the  sudden  power  and  resource  of  a 
woman  were  hers.  She  lifted  his  big  shoulders,  bringing  him 
back  gently  till  his  head  rested  against  her  and  his  eyes  looked 
wonderingly  up  into  her  face,  like  a  child.  She  began,  gently: 

"I  haven't  knowrn  you  always,  but  I  seem  to  know,  somehow, 
just  what  you  were  like  when  you  were  a  little  boy,  and  because 
you  don't  know,  I'll  tell  you."  Her  voice  was  very  quiet  and 
he  leaned  back,  relaxing  suddenly,  like  a  tired  child.  She 
smoothed  his  hair  softly  as  she  talked. 

"You  were  a  little  boy — a  little  tow-headed  boy!"  she  laughed 
tenderly.  "And  the  first  thing  you  knew  was  your  mother's 
face,  a  loving  face,  an  anxious  face,  and  her  hands  that  were 
always  busy.  And  the  next  thing  you  knew  was  your  father. 

"And  your  mother  did  all  the  things  for  you  that  a  mother 
does  but  she  was  always  having  to  run  away,  when  you  would 
like  to  have  had  her  stay  longer — she  was  so  busy.  But  your 
father  stayed.  He  never  had  to  run  eway.  He  talked  to  you, 
and  he  told  you  funny  stories  and  showed  you  curious  things. 


THE     (VLAW  353 

So  that  it  was  your  mother  that  you  needed  always,  and  loved, 
but  it  was  your  father  that  you  admired  and  adored. 

"And  then  there  was  another — your  brother.  And  he  was 
very  wonderful.  You  didn't  discover  him  till  a  little  later,  or 
rather,  you  hardly  knew  the  difference  at  first,  they  were  so 
much  alike  in  the  wonderful  things  they  said,  and  their  wonder 
ful  ways. 

"But  very  soon,  while  you  were  just  a  little  fellow,  you  learned 
why  your  mother  was  so  busy,  why  she  was  always  running 
away  when  you  wanted  her.  It  was  because  there  were  things 
to  be  done,  things  for  your  father  and  your  brother  to  give 
them  comfort  and  make  their  lives  easy.  And  so  very  soon 
after  that  you  began  helping  her,  helping  her  to  think  and  to 
do,  so  that  your  father  and  brother  might  not  have  to  work  or 
worry  or  be  in  any  way  different  from  the  lighthearted,  enter 
taining  father  and  brother  they  were.  You'd  rather  do  those 
things,  do  a  great  many  things,  than  have  them  changed. 
It  seemed  right  that  you  should,  you  and  your  mother,  that 
you  should  serve  them  with  your  hands  and  that  they  should 
give  to  you  of  their  brightness  and  brilliancy.  You  were  very 
proud  of  them. 

"And  you  gave  them,  besides,  another  great  thing."  She 
was  speaking  slowly,  choosing  her  words  with  care,  fearful  of 
startling  him  to  defense,  of  offending,  yet  determined  that  he 
should  learn  that  which  would  remove  the  last  veil  from  his  eyes 
and  clear  his  vision  wholly.  As  she  talked  her  heart  prayed 
for  words — for  the  right  words.  "You  gave  them  the  power 
to  think  for  you,  and  decide  for  you,  and  to  settle  and  establish 
all  your  choices.  For  they  seemed  somehow  so  much  better 
able  to  do  it. 

"So,  you  gave,  and  they  gave,  each  in  his  own  way.  And 
the  service  of  each  to  each  was  beautiful — indeed  it  was  very 
beautiful!"  Her  eyes  filled.  She  felt  him  tremble  under  her 


354  THE    CLAW 

hands — his  lips  quivered  and  the  tears  stood  out  beneath  the 
closed  eyelids,  but  she  went  on. 

'The  only  trouble  was  that  you  gave  too  much,  more  than 
they  could  have  asked,  more  than  they  would  have  asked  if 
they  had  known.  You  gave  yourself,  and  all  that  was  in  you, 
the  privilege  of  making  you  what  you  were  to  be.  You  gave 
all  in  one  splendid  sacrifice.  Oh  no!  Not  that  you  knew  it. 

It  was  all  consistent,  in  an  order  of  things  wholly 
abnormal  and  wrong,"  she  said,  boldly. 

" People  do  not  understand.  They  do  not  know  what  weight 
of  influence  they  lay  on  their  children,  especially  if  those  child 
ren  are  devoted  to  them.  Nor  can  they  understand  how  that 
influence  exerted  from  the  beginning,  especially  on  the  less 
self-willed  souls,  leaves  them  no  way  of  choice,  no  way  of  in 
dependence,  of  initiative.  Some  day—  '  she  said,  dreamily 
with  sudden  digression,  "when  I  have  my  children,  I  shall 
remember. 

"So  everything  was  imposed,  that  belonged  to  you,  even 
your  most  intimate  choices  and  preferences."  He  started, 
thinking  of  Corinne.  It  was  true,  it  was  the  barreness  of  his 
life,  the  lack  of  any  self-gratification,  self-luxury,  that  had 
impelled  him  to  aspire  to  this  sumptutous  girl.  That,  and 
the  willed  wish  of  his  father. 

Marlinee  was  sitting  beside  him  now,  quietly.  The  climax  was 
passed;  he  was  himself  again.  He  bent  forward  on  the  table, 
his  chin  in  his  hands,  looking  afar  with  his  steady  eyes.  What 
he  saw,  what  his  thoughts  were  she  could  not  guess.  She  prayed 
it  was  the  full  revelation. 

"So  that's  all,  dear.  You  see  you  are  no  more  to  blame  for 
your  convictions  than  I  am  for  mine.  They  were  born  in  us, 
they  were  greater  than  ourselves;  we  could  not  resist  them." 
She  drew  a  quick  breath  and  rose  from  her  chair.  He  turned 
and  caught  her  hand. 


THE    CLAW  355 

"Marlinee,  you  are  wonderful!  You  are  kind  beyond  words. 
I  see  it  now,  I  see  it!"  His  eyes  shone  with  a  great  light.  "I 
have  seen  it,  dimly,  I  have  known  it,  before,  but  I  was  afraid 
to  look  at  it,  to  look  at  it  in  the  face — my  life,  their  lives.  I 
WF,S  afraid  for  the  pain  of  it.  But  you  have  done  it  for  me. 
You  have  taken  away  the  veil,  and  in  such  a  way  that  the 
pain  is  gone — "  he  spoke  with  a  deep  breath — a  sob — like  one 
who  has  seen  a  catastrophe  pass.  "Ah,  no  one  else  could  have 
done  it.  No  one  else  could  have  done  it  but  you.  God  bless 
you,  Marlinee!" 

She  drew  her  hand  away  at  last  from  the  touch  of  his  reverent 
kiss  and  stood  gazing  out  of  the  little  window  into  the  green 
thicket  beyond.  Emotion  shook  her  to  the  depths.  The 
strain  of  the  past  hour,  the  gladness  of  Duncan's  deliverance 
and  the  memory  of  other  things,  her  nearness  to  him  and  his 
dearness.  She  had  held  him  this  moment;  she  had  warmed 
him  with  her  warmth  and  wooed  him  with  her  hope  and  vision 
back  to  life  and  strength  again.  Ah — God  was  good,  he  had 
given  her  much! 

The  moment  was  too  tense.  She  gave  a  little  shiver  and 
laugh  and  turned  to  him.  "I'm  hungry — there's  bacon  and 
flapjack  stuff  in  my  saddle  pack  but  I  expect  the  man  to  make 
the  fire!"  He  started,  relief  in  his  face.  "Sure,  I  forgot," 
he  said  and  strode  out  the  door.  She  watched  him  shoulder 
ing  his  way  up  the  slope  to  Mischief. 

She  stood  over  him  as  he  coaxed  a  fire  under  a  battered  camp 
stove  outside  the  door,  and  she  laid  the  rich  strips  of  bacon  in 
the  steaming  pan,  turning  them  deftly  with  her  hunting  knife. 
She  had  rolled  up  her  sleeves  and  turned  in  the  neck  of  her 
shirtwaist.  The  whiteness  of  her  bosom,  met  by  the  sunburned 
throat,  was  dazzling. 

"You  have  the  nerve,"  she  laughed,  "to  get  to  my  house 
first!" 


356  THE     CLAW 

"You  had  the  nerve,"  he  said,  "to  run  away  from  me!  Mar- 
linee,  what  made  you  do  it?"  Marlinee  found  it  necessary  to 
seek  the  cabin  for  new  supplies. 

"What  made  you  do  it — Marlinee?"  Duncan  persisted. 
She  had  delayed  that  he  might  forget  his  question.  She  did 
not  wish  to  tell  him,  to  revive  anything.  There  was  no  need. 
It  was  joy  to  see  him  himself,  to  know  the  nightmare  of  the  past 
week — her  thoughts  of  him  as  he  had  been  were  over  forever. 

"Duncan,  see  what  delicious  strips  of  bacon!"  She  held  up 
a  slice,  delicately  balanced  on  her  knife-point.  "I'm  powerful 
hungry.  Lets  not  talk  any  moie  till  we've  'et,'  as  Winston  says." 

"But,  Marlinee,  listen!  I  want  to  tell  you  how  much  I've 
missed  you.  How  much  I've  wanted  you.  I've  been  sick  and 
sore  that  you  weren't  there,  I'm  so  accustomed  to  your  help 
and  your  cousel,  to  telling  everything  to  you,  Marlinee. 
I  can't  say  what  it  means  to  me.  You're  so  kind!"  He  reached 
for  the  little  disengaged  hand,  but  it  was  gone.  Marlinee  had 
sprung  to  her  feet.  Her  cheeks  were  very  red — they  had  been 
too  near  the  flame.  Her  eyes  flashed  in  the  old  fashion  and  her 
little  chin  was  tilted  high.  She  eyed  Duncan  long  and  cur 
iously  from  under  her  lashes.  Then,  with  a  quick  little  inso 
lent  laugh,  she  stretched  both  arms  and  yawned. 

"Ye-e-es.     So    kind!     Quite    like    a    grandmother — No?" 

It  was  a  merry  dinner.  Reaction  had  come  for  each  of  them, 
reaction  from  the  last  rTour  and  the  last  terrible  days,  and  with 
it  a  lightheartedness,  childish  in  its  quality.  The  woods  rang 
with  their  innocent  hilarity.  After  dinner  Duncan  smoked  in 
contentment  under  a  great  pine  tree,  his  head  pillowed  in  the 
fragrant  needles.  Marlinee  was  close  by.  The  sweet,  cool 
wind  of  the  forest  caressed  him,  soothing  like  a  kind  hand, 
blowing  from  him  for  the  time  all  care  and  anxiety,  all  thought 
of  the  future,  not  soreness  and  hurt,  nor  sorrow,  a  deep  and 
never  to  be  forgotten  sorrow,  yet  even  these  were  assuaged — 


THE    CLAW  357 

allayed — as  though  Marlinee's  words  had  drawn  a  thorn  from 
his  inflamed  mind — and  the  hills  were  a  sweet  and  healing  seda 
tive,  easing  all  the  remaining  hurt. 

They  talked  of  many  things  and  she  told  him,  now,  of  how 
she  came  to  leave  the  valley,  and  of  the  papers  and  Norris' 
letter  telling  of  Duncan's  step.  He  had  thought  her  in  the  valley 
all  the  time,  and  somehow  cognizant  of  all  his  experiences, 
even  with  Corinne.  He  told  her  dispassionately  of  the  girl, 
and  of  his  disappointment  in  her  manner  of  receiving  his  news. 
But  on  this  point  Marlinee  did  not  lend  her  usually  instructive 
observations.  There  were  some  forms  of  knowledge  Marlinee 
possessed  that  she  kept  to  herself.  Then  their  talk  drifted  to 
other  things,  to  pleasanter  things.  Sometimes  they  were 
silent  while  Marlinee  read  in  desultory  fashion  from  the  magazine 
in  her  hands  or  looked  beyond  her  book  to  the  checkerboard 
valley  below. 

Duncan  woke  with  a  shiver  and  sat  up  with  a  start.  The 
woods  were  in  twilight. 

"What  the  devil!  Where—"  he  muttered.  Then  he  sud 
denly  remembered.  " Marlinee!"  he  cried.  His  voice  held 
apology.  He  sprang  up  and  pounded  down  the  hill,  full  of 
self-reproach.  Why,  it  was  late!  Marlinee  must  have  started 
supper  and  fed  the  pony.  Darn  it,  what  a  cad  he  was! 

But  Marlinee  was  not  in  the  cabin  nor  the  pony  in  the  thicket. 
After  he  had  come  back,  bewildered,  he  found  a  little  note 
stuck  to  the  table  with  his  pocket  knife.  He  seized  it  quickly 
and  read: 

"On  to  Durfey's!  Don't  apologize,  I  wouldn't  have  disturbed 
you  for  anything.  You  had  such  a  good  sleep.  You  must  do 
that  every  day,  it'll  do  you  a  lot  of  good.  And  stay  till  you 
have  lost  that  lean  and  hungry  look  and  hcive  some  fat  on  your 


358  THE     CLAW 

bones — I  like  fat  men.     Don't  drop  matches  and  don't  forget 
to  put  out  your  camp  fire. 

Yours, 

"Grandmama" 

Duncan  said  a  large,  bad  word.  Then  he  sat  down  and  stared 
at  himself.  He  had  forgotten — in  his  new  relief,  in  his  happiness 
in  finding  Marlinee — he  had  forgotten  everything.  •  Conven 
tionalities — there  were  no  such  thing!  He  had  actually  never 
thought  in  his  relief  and  utter  contentment  at  being  with  her 
again,  with  the  utter  naturalness  of  it  like  this,  just  they  two, 
alone  in  this  dear  intimate  fashion,  he  had  actually  never 
thought  of  the  impossibility  of  it.  He  looked  at  himself  in 
amazement,  but  it  was  so.  Marlinee,  woman  like,  had  thought 
of  and  provided  for  it,  and  she  had  gone.  Heavens!  She 
had  gone  instead  of  him,  left  the  cabin  he  had  usurped,  sought 
some  other  haven  for  the  night.  What  else  was  there  for  her 
to  do,  in  delicacy! 

He  sat  in  an  agony  of  self-reproach.  The  cold  sweat  stood 
out  on  him,  the  sweat  of  chagrin.  He  could  not  endure  the 
thought  of  his  position  of  what  she  must  think  of  him.  Mar 
linee,  whose  regard  he  desired  above  everything  else!  He  had 
never  before  entertained  the  thought  of  losing  it.  Now  he 
knew  that  he  could  not  lose  it.  It  would  be  unendurable. 
Not  that  she  would  despise  him.  She  would  only  laugh  at 
his  stupidity.  Duncan  "stupid"  in  the  eyes  of  Marlinee! 
The  thought  agonized  him.  Yet  that  would  not  be  new;  surely 
she  had  often  had  cause  to  think  him  as  stupid,  slow.  But 
now  it  was  different. 

Suddenly  he  realized  how  different  and  why.  He  knew  at 
last! 

Why  had  he  not  thought  of  it  before?  And  she  had  told  him 


THE    CLAW  359 

everything,  interpreted  everything  else    in  his   heart.       Had 
she  read  this,  too,  and  fled  before  the  knowledge? 

"Marlineel"     His  hands  went  out  in  the  darkness  and  with 
it  all  the  longing  of  his  man's  soul. 


CHAPTER  XLIV 

Duncan's  address  before  the  wine  people  had  made  an 
immense  impression.  His  ardor,  his  tremendous  vigor,  the 
passionate  enunciation  of  his  new  convictions  had  fallen  on 
his  hearers  and  for  the  time  enthralled  the  consciousness  of 
all  with  the  conception  of  the  liquor  traffic  which  he  now  held. 
All  the  embellishments  of  oratory  that  characterized  and  lent 
ornament  to  Duncan's  former  address,  making  it  a  classic  of 
its  kind,  were  absent  now,  and  the  raw  heart  and  conscience 
of  the  man  was  bared  in  his  stinging  arraignment  of  himself 
and  his  industry.  It  was  something  his  hearers  could  never 
forget. 

On  none  had  the  impressions  of  the  evening  fallen  with 
greater  effect  than  on  Mr.  Cummings.  He  was  late  in  arriv 
ing.  He  was  making  his  way  to  the  platform  just  as  Duncan 
was  called,  and  paused  in  the  wings  of  the  small  stage.  Dun 
can's  first  words,  the  first  tones  of  his  voice  struck  and  held 
him.  He  listened  in  astonishment,  in  unbelief  at  the  pure 
nerve  of  the  man,  his  daring,  his  astounding  surety  of  himself, 
expressed  in  the  blunt,  uncompromising  statements  with  which 
he  began  his  speech.  As  Duncan  proceeded  a  flame  that  had 
seemingly  been  kept  in  abeyance,  flashed  out.  It  seemed  to 
envelop  the  man;  he  was  on  fire.  His  new  convictions  were  a 
conflagration  in  which  one  saw — old  prejudices  consumed  before 
the  eye  and  the  new  motive,  self-denial,  the  thought  for  the 
other  man,  rise  to  imperishable  place. 

All  recognized,  all  responded  to  the  persuasion.  For  the 
first  fifteen  minutes  Duncan  took  to  enunciate  his  new  faith, 
the  entire  assemblage  was  an  involuntary  unit  in  its  accept 
ance  of  the  new  creed.  Then  the  reaction  came.  Whitten 
was  the  first  to  recover.  He  saw  Cummings  in  the  wings  and 


THE     CLAW  361 

called  to  him  sharply.  The  latter  turned  with  ^n  abruptness 
that  lost  the  moment  to  Duncan  and  left  the  boy  with  the  im 
pression  of  repudiation. 

"Say,  what  do  you  mean  by  this?"  demanded  Whitten  in 
a  fierce  aside;  his  face  was  white.  "This  is  your  work.  Now 
go  out  there  and  explain  it  to  the  audience — it's  up  to  you!" 

"I've  nothing  to  say!"  answered  Cummings,  pugnaciously. 
He  was  not  accustomed  to  taking  orders. 

"Well,  you  have — or  you  ought  to  have.  This  is  a  Hell  of 
a  mess  to  have  put  us  in  and  then  step  aside  and  leave  us." 

"Oh,  all  right,  if  you  feel  that  way  I'll  just  do  it — I'll  have 
my  say,  too,"  answered  Mr.  Cummings,  angrily,  and  he  stepped 
out  on  the  platform. 

"Gentlemen,"  he  began,  "You  have  heard  what  Cameron 
had  to  say.  He  asked  me  to  see  that  he  had  an  opportunity 
to  speak  to  you.  He  was  scheduled  on  the  program  for  a  speech, 
presumably  one  favoring  our  interests.  He  said  he  could  not 
take  the  part  expected  of  him,  but  as  an  honest  man  he  wished 
rather  to  come  before  you  than  publicly,'  make  his  renuncia 
tion  of  his  former  convictions  and  give  you  the  reason  for  that 
renunciation.  I  thought  that  fair.  The  gentlemen  of  the 
program  committee  disagreed  with  me  but  as  general  chair 
man  of  the  campaign  I  used  my  authority  to  overrule  their 
judgment  and  to  insist  that  Cameron  have  his  chance,  the  chance 
to  take  the  stand  of  a  fearless  man,  no  matter  how  you  or  I 
may  judge  his  sentiments.  It  there's  any  blame  forthcoming 
for  the  matter  I'm  ready  to  assume  it."  He  bowed  and  took 
his  seat. 

There  seemed  nothing  further  to  be  said.  Whitten  had 
received  two  blows  in  rapid  succession  and  seemed  unable  to 
n'.lly  his  defense.  He  sullenly  resumed  the  chair  and  called 
on  the  next  speaker. 

For  Mr.  Cummings,  speeding  home  in  his  machine,  the  inci- 


362  THE    CLAW 

dent  constituted  an  era.  It  is  not  often  that  a  man  who  has 
reached  the  age  of  fifty-five  meets  with  an  influence  that  over 
turns  the  entire  structure  of  his  former  life  and  establishes 
another,  new  from  the  foundations  up;  but  the  boy's  words  had 
done  this  for  Cummings.  Yet  not  so  much  the  boy's  words; 
it  was  more  the  spirit,  fresh,  young,  fearless  in  declaration  of 
his  newly  conceived  propaganda  of  life. 

What  was  he  that  he  should  withhold  the  service  and  sympathy 
of  his  few  remaining  years,  when  this  lad  gave  all,  yielded  all, 
all  the  dazzling  wordly  promise  of  his  young  life — ambition, 
wordly  honor,  even  love  itself — threw  all  into  the  balance  in 
a  splendid  and  daring  self-renunciation  in  the  name  of  his  new 
faith.  He  had  long  resisted  that  faith — Cummings — the  vision 
of  the  larger  altruism.  Now  he  knew  that  God  had  given 
him  once  again  the  opportunity  of  embracing  it  by  the  inspira 
tion  furnished  in  this  beloved  boy. 

He  saw  plainly  the  call,  the  call  to  all  men  and  women  who 
had  been  users  of  drink  as  an  established  custom,  a  part  of  the 
domestic  regimen,  of  hospitality  and  tradition,  and  who,  so 
far,  had  suffered  no  ill  effects  there  from.  It  was,  in  the  terse 
and  common  phrase,  "up  to"  such  men  and  women  now,  in 
a  time  and  age  when  drink  was  taking  hold  on  the  peculiar 
temperament  of  the  people,  especially  of  the  young,  with  such 
appalling  effect — it  was  up  to  all  men  and  women  of  generous 
impulses  to  demonstrate  a  big  self  denial. 

Well,  he  was  big  enough  for  that  sacrifice,  he  hoped.  It 
might  come  hard  at  first  and  he  might  not  be  able  to 
extend  his  reform  to  embrace  his  household,  but  for  himself 
he  made  his  choice,  to  give  over  the  use  of  wine  and  other 
drinks  himself  and  to  resist  the  code  of  custom  that  urged 
him  to  offer  drink  to  others. 

And  he  kept  his  word,  although  it  was  hard,  harder  than 
he  could  have  believed  or  imagined.  It  was  hard,  for  it 


THE    CLAW  363 

constituted  a  task  involving  a  biological  transformation 
as  well  as  a  social  one.  He  told  himself  laughingly,  when 
his  hand  went  out  for  a  familiar  glass,  that  he  surely  was 
not  to  be  bested  in  his  new  determination  by  a  mere  strip 
ling.  There  are  many  kinds  of  heroism  and  young  heroism 
at  all  times  monopolizes  the  spot-light  but  none  is  greater 
than  that  of  a  man  grown  old  who,  seeing  error  in  his  forner 
ways,  casts  off  the  impulses  and  habits  of  a  life  time  for 
the  sake  and  in  the  name  of  the  young  generation.  Mr. 
Cummings  was  such  a  hero. 


CHAPTER     XLV 

One  of  the  practical  results  of  Duncan's  new  stand  Mr. 
Cummings  descerned  on  the  following  morning  when  daylight 
furnished  a  more  comprehensive  view  of  the  subject  -  -  his 
financial  situation.  It  was  unfortunate  at  present.  It 
would  be  made  precarious  by  his  last  night's  avowel. 

One  half  of  Duncan's  place  was  mortgaged,  the  notes  be 
ing  held  by  Blythe.  The  other  half  had  been  made  security 
for  the  money  borrowed  from  three  different  wine  men,  Whit- 
ten,  Jones  and  Powel.  These  men  were  by  the  circum 
stance  of  Duncan's  avowed  change  of  heart  and  opposition 
to  the  industry,  his  enemies.  Each  held  his  notes  on  demand. 
Cummings  saw  catastrophe  ahead  for  Duncan  should  these 
men  act  on  motives  of  ordinary  revenge. 

Inadvertantly  he  had  assumed  great  responsibility  for 
that  catastrophe,  if  it  came.  Blythe's  return  fire,  following 
Duncan's  frustration  of  the  former's  plot  against  him,  and 
its  public  exposure,  had  been  a  letter  from  Blythe's  lawyer 
notifying  Cameron  that  Blythe  wanted  his  money  and  would 
at  once  begin  foreclosure  proceedings  if  it  was  not  forth 
coming. 

Duncan  sought  Mr.  Cummings,  cursing  himself  for  the 
confidence  with  which  he  had  allowed  the  mortgage  to  remain 
in  Blythe's  hands,  and  made  application  for  a  loan  from  the 
Grower's  Bank,  of  which  Mr.  Cummings  was  president. 

"You  want  a  loan  of  $25,000  to  cover  the  mortgage?"  said 
Mr.  Cummings.  "Well,  I've  no  doubt  in  the  world  but  that 
you  can  be  accomodated  but  of  course  the  matter  will  have 
to  be  taken  up  formally  before  the  directors  at  the  next  meeting. 
I'd  advise  you  to  write  Blythe  and  say  that  you've  arranged 


THE    CLAW  365 

for  the  money  and  that  it'll  be  forthcoming;  within  the  next 
ten  or  fifteen  days." 

Duncan  did  so  at  once.  He  would  be  immensely  relieved 
when  he  had  the  papers  in  his  own  hands  again.  It  was  an 
extremely  neat  piece  of  work  on  Blythe's  part  and  strictly 
along  his  line  of  conduct,  disarming  Duncan  of  ny  anxiety 
in  the  matter  when  the  latter  offered  to  relieve  him  of  the 
mortgage  some  weeks  ago.  And  he  had  learned  from  Duncan 
who  held  the  notes.  Duncan's  mind  took  sudden  alarm 
again.  But  no,  the  men  were  his  friends  and,  in  the  instance 
of  Blythe's  contemptible  conduct  toward  him,  had  expressed 
their  sentiments  concerning  the  latter  in  most  condemnatory 
terms.  The  notes  would  be  safe  with  them. 

That  the  situation  had  now  changed,  wholly  and  seriously, 
Mr.  Cummings  plainly  saw  and  Duncan,  his  and  his  all,  were 
in  the  hands  of  men  now  arrayed  with  Blythe  on  the  side  of 
those  whom  Duncan's  new  stand  logically  opposed.  Also 
these  men  were  among  the  directors  of  the  Grower's  Bank. 
Well,  he  must  do  his  best  for  the  boy.  The  directors'  meeting 
was  that  evening. 

After  the  board's  usual  preliminary  business,  Mr.  Cummings 
introduced  the  subject  of  the  loan:  "Gentlemen,  Duncan 
Cameron  approached  me  some  time  ago  and  asked  for  a  loan 
of  $25,000  on  two  hundred  and  fifty  acres  of  his  place.  I  told 
him  that  I  had  no  doubt  that  we  could  let  him  have  it  but 
that  I  would  take  the  matter  up  with  you  tonight."  The 
answer,  couched  by  Whitten,  he  had  anticipated. 

"Well,  I  guess  that  matter  can  be  easily  disposed  of.  There 
are  none  of  us  hankering  to  accomodate  Cameron  after  the 
way  he's  thrown  down,  his  friends,  the  wine  men." 

"No,    that's   right,"    added    Powell   and   Bernardini. 

"What  do  you  say,  Blythe?"  asked  Whitten.  Blythe 
had  not  spoken.  "I  understand  Duncan  wants  the  money 


366  THE    CLAW 

to  take  up  a  mortgage  held  by  you.  You'll  be  both  the  payer 
and  the  recipient  in  this  case  and  you  ought  to  have  something 
to  say,"  he  added,  facetiously.  Blythe  answered  with  an 
assumption  of  his  large  and  suave  manner. 

•"Well,  I  certainly  wouldn't  urge  you  men  to  a  thing  you 
can't  do  in  justice  to  yourselves,  put  your  selves  out  to  do  a 
favor  for  a  man  that's  done  you  as  Cameron  did. 
Don't  make  the  loan,  I'd  say.  Teach  the  youngster  a  lesson. 
Let  him  scratch  for  it  a  while.  I'm  in  no  hurry  for  my  money." 

Cummings  turned  and  looked  at  Blythe  for  a  full  moment. 
The  latter  sat  toying  carelessly  with  a  paper  knife.  He  had 
the  air  of  a  kindly  man  who  was  willing  to  forego  his  own 
preferences  in  the  matter  to  accomplish  the  deserved  rebuke 
of  another.  He  had  lied,  lied  again  barefacedly,  as  he  had 
done  to  Cummings  on  the  morning  after  the  plot  designed 
against  Duncan.  This  man  was  the  limit  of  unmitigated 
gall,  effrontery  and  dastardliness.  His  designs  were  as  plain 
as  the  map  on  the  wall  yonder.  Mr.  Cummings  bent  foreward 
across  the  table: 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Blythe,  but  I  guess  that  must  be 
a  mistake.  I  saw  a  letter  written  by  your  lawyer  to  Cameron 
two  weeks  ago  in  which  you  demanded  payment  of  that  mortgage 
and  stated  that  if  the  money  was  not  forthcoming  you  would 
begin  foreclosure  proceedings  at  once.  It  was  because  of 
that  letter  that  Duncan  asked  for  this  loan.  I  say,  Blythe, 
what  are  you  going  to  do  with  ibat  mortgage?" 

"It's  none  of  your  damned  business!"  said  Blythe.  Mr. 
Cummings  was  not  a  young  man  but  he  was  one  of  vigor  and 
of  Southern  blood  that  would  not  take  an  insult.  The  other 
men  threw  themselves  between  the  two. 

"You  say  that,  you  low  down,  lying  scoundrel;  you  who 
would  ruin  and  blight  a  boy  young  enough  to  be  your  son! 
It  isn't  my  business?  Well,  I'll  make  it  my  business.  I 


THE    CLAW  367 

stood  responsible  for  this  loan.  I  made  Cameron  the  tentative 
promise  that  it  would  be  forthcoming.  He  wrote  you  that 
he  would  have  the  money  shortly  and  you  never  told  him 
you  didn't  want  it,  that  he  was  welcome  to  an  extension  of 
time  on  it.  Now  then,  you  shall  have  it!"  Mr.  Cummings 
reached  inside  his  pocket,  brought  out  his  check  book  and 
writing  out  a  check  to  the  full  amount  threw  it  across  the 
table  at  Blythe.  "There!"  he  said.  The  latter  waved  a 
dissenting  but  propitiatory  hand. 

"I  think  these  gentlemen  will  agree,  Mr.  Cummings,  that 
this  isn't  regular.  I  think  they  will  agree  that  I  can't  take 
your  check  for  Cameron's  mortgage.  Your  own  business 
knowledge  will  tell  you  that  if  you  stop  to  think,"  he  added 
with  largeness.  "And  as  I  said  before,  I  prefer  to  hold  the 
obligation,  at  least  until  Cameron  insists  on  relieving  me 
of  it," 

Mr.  Cumming's  face  went  from  the  white  of  his  recent  rage, 
to  scarlet.  It  was  true.  There  was  no  business  precedence 
by  which  Blythe  could  be  made  to  take  the  check  from  him, 
and  release  the  mortgage.  If  he,  in  his  impulsiveness  had 
stopped  to  think  he  would  have  known  that.  The  man  had 
had  the  insolence  to  refuse  him  and  at  the  same  time,  to  rebuke 
his  apparent  lack  of  business  knowledge.  He  was  farious 
but  there  was  nothing  to  be  done. 

"Very  well,"  he  said,  "we'll  see  about  this  later"  He  put 
through  the  remaining  business  with  a  curt  ness  and  expedition 
provided  by  his  suppressed  fury  and  humiliation,  emphasized 
by  Blythe's  self-satisfied  manner. 


CHAPTER  XLVI. 

Cumrnings  spent  the  following  day  trying  to  locate  Duncan. 
He  learned  from  his  mother  that  he  was  in  the  mountains 
but  the  latter  had  misunderstood  Duncan's  stated  destination. 
She  thought  it  Walthers,  instead  of  Welches.  Walthers  was 
an  old  claim  of  Cameron's  on  the  farther  side  of  the  range. 
Mr.  Cummings,  by  'phone,  dispatched  a  messenger  from  the 
mountain  resort  near  Walther's  to  hunt  Duncan  and  it  was 
only  in  the  late  afternoon  that  it  was  learned  that  he  was  in 
another  part  of  the  mountains.  Marlinee  at  Durfey's  camp 
everheard  the  answer  to  an  inquiry  for  the  boy  and  at  once 
gave  the  information  of  his  whereabouts.  Then  she  telephoned 
to  Cummings. 

"Mr.  Cummings?  This  is  Marlinee,  Marlinee  Madison.  I 
heard  of  your  inquiry.  Duncan  is  up  at  Welches,  my  uncle's 
cabin,  you  know.  We  can  send  a  messenger  for  him.  I 
hope  nothing  serious  has*  happened,"  she  added  anxiously. 

"Oh,  Miss  Marlinee!  I'm  glad  to  hear  your  voice.  You 
can  get  him?  That's  good,  as  soon  as  you  can,  please.  No 
it's  nothing  serious,"  he  fibbed,  "just  business,  but  its  urgent. 
It's  too  late  for  him  to  catch  the  valley  stage.  I'll  be  in  camp 
in  an  hour  with  the  machine  and  you  can  get  him  down  in  the 
mean  time.  Good-bye." 

Duncan  was  at  the  camp  by  the  appointed  hour. 
The  apologies  he  had  prepared  for  his  conduct  of  the  afternoon 
were  waved  aside  by  Marlinee  in  her  anxiety  to  learn  Duncan's 
conjecture  concerning  the  matter  in  hand.  Her  own  thoughts 
and  his  had  been  the  same  in  the  last  hour.  What  could  it 
mean?  Why  was  Mr.  Cummings  seeking  Duncan,  coming 
urgently  for  him  when  both  he  and  his  daughter  had  but 


THE    CLAW  369 

recently  repudiated  him.  Yet  Mr.  Cu minings'  voice  over 
the  'phone  had  been  most  cordial. 

"You  don't  think  it's  anything  serious  do  you,  dear?"  asked 
Marlinee.  "You  look  as  if  something  was  worrying  you." 

"I  hope  not,  but  I  confess,  I  pjn  worried,"  answered  Duncan. 
"I  had  forgotten,  overlooked  in  my  other  anxieties,  something 
important,  something  I  should  have — but  there's  Mr. 
Cummings  now!  I'll  let  you  know,  I'll  call  you  up  when  I 
get  down -to  the  valley,"  he  colled  back,  seeing  his  own  anxiety 
immediately  reflected  in  the  face  of  the  girl.  "Don't  worry, 
Marlinee." 

On  the  way  down,  Mr.  Cummings  related  the  story  of  the 
directors'  meeting,  including  in  the  recital  his  own  efforts  to 
go  to  Duncan's  rescue. 

"Now  I'll  tell  you  what  I  want  you  to  do,"  he  added.  I've 
put  $50,000  to  your  credit  in  the  Growers'  Bank  today  and 
I've  drawn  a  check  for  half  that  amount  in  favor  of  Blythe. 
I  want  you  to  hunt  up  his  attorney  and  give  him  the  check 
and  get  that  mortgage  back  tonight.  Go  to  it,  right  off!  I 
want  to  see  that  cur,  Blythe,  whipped. 

"With  the  rest  of  the  money  I'd  advise  you  to  take  up  those 
outstanding  notes  of  yours,  at  once.  They're  not  safe,  not 
safe  a  day  with  those  men.  No,  that's  all  right,"  he  added 
as  Duncan  turned  to  him  with  lips  that  could  form  no  words 
but  with  eyes  in  which  amazement  and  gratitude  for  Mr. 
Cummings'  generous  provision  had  drawn  the  quick  tears. 

"I'm  not  afraid  of  my  security,  if  you  aren't  afraid  to  trust 
me  with  your  fortunes.  The  vineyard  is  good,  absolutely 
good,  and  when  you  get  that  grape  juice  factory  of  yours 
going,  "he  laughed,  boyishly,  "or  turn  your  place  over  to  raisin 
or  table-grapes  as  I  fancy  you  propose  to  do  now  you've  turned 
prohibitionist,  you'll  more  than  pay  out  in  a  few  years." 

"But   Mr.    Cummings,    I    can't   take   your   kindness.     I'm 


370  THE    CLAW 

no  longer  eligible  to  it.  Whitten  was  right,  I  can  ask  no 
further  favors  from  my  old  friends,  and  then,  Corinne."  Mr. 
Cummings  was  silent  a  moment  and  when  he  spoke  his  voice 
was  husky : 

"My  boy,  no  one  could  be  more  regretful  of  one  result  of 
this  regeneration  of  yours  than  I,  for  it  seems  to  be  true,  that 
I  have  thereby  lost  a  son.  I  am  sorry.  I  am  humiliated 
that  it  should  be  so.  But  this  fact  does  not  alter  my  affection 
for  the  son  of  my  best  friend,  a  boy  who  has  come  to  take  a 
place  in  my  heart  that  no  formal  rela.tionsh.ip  could  enhance. 
Duncan,  lad,  I  love  you  as  I  would  have  loved  my  own  son, 
had  I  one.  But  besides  that,  you  have  become  something 
more.  In  your  youth  and  the  purpose  of  your  new  manhood 
you  have  renewed  in  me  something  of  the  moral  vigor  I  fear 
I  had  sadly  lost.  You  have  revived  within  me  elements  of 
moral  strength  that  have  helped  me  to  a  long  delayed  determ 
ination.  I  am  with  you,  my  boy,  in  your  new  purpose  and 
cause,  with  you  with  all  the  strength  of  my  hand  and  the 
co-operation  of  my  sympathy  and  material  aid.  I  am  proud 
and  happy  beyond  words  to  have  the  privilege  of  helping  you  in 
your  first  steps  on  the  new  way."  He  extended  his  hand 
and  Duncan  took  it  in  a  grip  of  fellowship  and  understanding 
known  only  to  strong  men. 

Duncan  sought  Blythe's  attorney  and  gave  him  the  check. 
He  was  working  late  at  his  office.  Just  returned  from  his 
summer  outing  he  had  found  instructions  awaiting  him  from 
Blythe  to  proceed  at  once  to  foreclose  on  Cameron. 
Blythe  was  impatient  at  having  lost  the  day.  The  paper, 
just  completed  by  the  lawyer,  lay  upon  his  desk.  The  latter 
chagrined  at  the  loss  of  the  comfortable  fee  involved  in  the, 
anticipated  proceeding,  handed  over  to  Duncan  the  mortgage, 
then  off  handedly  remarked,  "By  the  way,  Mr.  Cameron,1*! 
have  three  notes  here  for  collection,  formerly  held  against 


THE    CLAW  371 

you  by  Whitten,  Powell  and  Jones.  In  the  course  of  his  business 
they  came  into  Mr.  Blythe's  hands  and  he  is  urgent  for 
immediate  payment.  He  has  already  notified  the  bank  to  that 
effect. 

There  was  no  glimmer  of  emotion  on  Duncan's  face  to 
betray  his  surprise  at  Blythe's  latest  and  most  complete  designs 
for  his  ruin.  He  drew  out  his  check  book  and  saying  casually : 

"Very  well,  I'll  just  settle  for  those  at  the  same  time," 
proceeded  to  write  a  check  for  the  full  amount. 


CHAPTER  XLVII 

Duncan  walked  up  the  drive  to  the  house.  He  took  off  his 
hat  as  he  went  and  looked  about  him  and  up  at  the  old  trees 
bending  over  him,  great  eucalyptus  trees  of  twenty  or  thirty 
years  growth,  and  pepper  trees  interspersed  with  the  huge 
bushes  of  oleander,  white  and  red.  He  looked  afar  at  the 
house,  shabby,  crying  for  paint  and  repair,  but  charming  n  its 
broad  low  lines  and'  its  possibilities  of  hospitality.  Home\ 
Yes  it  was  home,  his  home,  the  hcme  of  his  mother  and  if 
it  were  in  the  possibility  of  God's  goodness,  the  home  of  her, 
dearest  of  all  women.  But  he  dared  not  think  of  that  yet. 

It  seemed  a  month,  a  fuL  summer  since  he  had  left  it  all 
and  then  everything  had  been  over  cast  with  the  gloom  of  his 
own  distracted  imagination  and  the  recent  tragedy.  How 
different  now!  His  heart  was  filled  with  a  great  gratitude 
that  it  was  yet  his  home,-  that  the  calamity  so  imminent,  so 
nearly  precipitated,  had  passed ,  that,  thanks  to  Providence 
and  Mr.  Cummings,  the  place  was  his  and  a  safe  provision 
made  for  its  future  by  an  honest  and  faithful  friend.  God 
had  been  good! 

This  load  and  the  others  he  had  carried,  blame  for  what  he 
had  done  and  what  he  had  left  undone,  were  all  gone;  healed, 
the  self  accusation.  Even  his  mother's  attitude,  he  was 
going  home  w  th  no  anxiety  for  that.  It  had  been  one  of  the 
things  they  had  talked  of  together,  he  and  Marlinee.  Like 
two  following  a  tangled  thread  through  many  windings  to  its 
place  of  fastening,  they  had  unwoven  reasons.  Fearlessly, 
with  no  rebuke,  only  compassion,  he  had  faced  the  fact  that 
his  mother  was  one  whose  motives,  like  his  own  were  not 
self -provided.  Jeanie,  like  himself,  had  had  no  life  of  her 
own.  The  insistent  personality  of  her  father  had  plucked  her, 


THE    CLAW  373 

a  girl  of  unformed  mind  and  humble  family  traditions.  That 
same  insistent  personality  had  mastered  her,  soul,  body  and 
imagination  with  the  complete  subjugation  of  superior  will, 
acting  on  a  yielding  and  devoted  mind. 

It  was  that  which  provided  the  narrowness  of  judgment  that 
left  Duncan  uninformed  of  the  vital  things  concerning  his 
ather.  It  was  this  that  caused  her  rebellion,  the  first  she 
had  ever  shown  against  a  male  creature,  certainly  the  first 
toward  her  man  son.  The  breach  would  heal.  He  would 
have  patience.  And  already,  as  his  thoughts  comforted  him  he 
s:«  \v  she  was  there  to  meet  him,  standing  in  the  sunshine  under 
the  drooping  trumpet-vine  her  hands  wrapped  in  her  large 
apron  in  the  quaint  old  country  way. 

"  Duncan!" 

He  took  her  in  his  arms  very  tenderly.  She  clung  to  him 
passionately  and  began  to  cry. 

"Oh,  I  thocht  ye  wud  never  come  hame!  I've  wanted  ye 
sair.  It  was  a  shamefu'  thing,  the  w'y  I  did  ye,  Duncan,  lad, 
the  nicht  ago,  but  I  was  sair  hurt,  an'  my  heart  was  near  to 
breakin'." 

"Yes,  mother,  yes,"  he  said.  He  led  her  to  a  seat  and  they 
sat  down. 

"I've  knew  a'  the  time  that  ye  were  richt,  that  the  temperance 
folk  were  richt.  But  I  cudna  admeet  it,  it  was  like  death 
tae  admeet  it,  that  be  cud  be  wrang."  Her  voice  broke  in 
a  great  sob.  Her  hand  felt  out  and  met  his.  They  clasped 
in  an  understanding  and  fellowship,  perfect. 


CHAPTER  XL VIII. 

It  was  characteristic  of  Duncan  that  he  should  begin  at 
once  the  rehabilitation  of  his  new  life,  both  moral  and  material. 
After  consultation  with  his  mother  on  the  matter  he  sought 
the  nearest  grape  juice  factory  and  signed  with  the  company 
for  his  entire  grape  crop  for  the  season.  At  the  end  of  the 
season  he  intended  grafting  over  his  whole  acreage  to  table 
and  raisin  grapes. 

When  he  reviewed  the  prices  brought  by  both  the  past 
years,  compared  with  that  paid  for  wine  grapes,  he  wondered 
at  his  lack  of  common  judgment  that  had  kept  him  so  long  at 
his  present  business.  There  was  no  reason  why  La  Mesa 
vineyard  should  not  be  made  to  pay  out  on  new  lines.  No 
reason  why  he  should  not  keep  the  place  intact,  if  hard  work 
and  perseverance  could  do  it,  but  if  it  seemed  best  to  sell  a 
portion  he  would  not  now  hesitate.  He  owed  something, 
much,  to  his  mother,  to  ease  her  day  by  bringing  relief  from  the 
long  strain  of  financial  stringency  and  give  her  comforts  long 
denied.  And  he  would  look  to  his  own  material  provision, 
to  get  out  from  under  the  burden  and  stigma  of  debt;  get 
on  his  feet  again  as  a  man  standing  on  his  own  financial  bottom. 
That  would  be  better  and  more  to  the  credit  of  his  father's 
name  than  the  adherence  to  many  impractical  ideals. 

His  life  seemed  now  strangely  big,  wide  and  free,  and  himself, 
one  from  whom  the  weights  had  been  removed.  His  new 
vision  gave  him  new  sight  in  many  ways  and  made  his  long 
apprenticeship  in  error  seem  almost  incredible.  His  new 
perceptions  of  the  liquor  problem  were  more  vivid  than  any 
other.  As  the  doctor  sees  the  skeleton  in  all  men,  the  banker 
the  man's  financial  status,  and  the  dressmaker  makes  mental 
comments  on  the  set  of  the  gowns  on  the  women  she  meets, 


THE    CLAW  375 

so  Duncan  now  specializing  in  the  subject  of  the  liquor  problem 
saw  many  things  and  many  phases  never  before  perceived. 
It  seemed  as  though  his  thoughts  were  directed  and  kept  in 
that  line  by  a  hundred  suggestions  and  incidents  daily,  all 
more  or  less  painful  and  revealing. 

He  felt  a  personal  chagrin  now,  in  the  institutions  whose 
business  was  such  as  to  be  carried  on  behind  blinds  and  glazed 
doors.  He  felt  a  shame  for  the  men  who  came  out  therefrom, 
a  shame  especially  for  the  turned  out  work  of  those  places 
seen  in  the  drunks  and  bums  that  the  saloon  spewed  forth. 

Presently  the  logical  end  was  accomplished  in  Duncan. 
He,  who  habitually  threw  his  whole  soul  ancl  strength  into 
any  work  he  undertook,  in  any  cause  he  espoused,  could  be 
no  mere  on  looker  in  this  one,  no  mere  rooter  on  the  side  lines 
in  this  fight.  He  sought  Fessendon  and  got  into  it. 

He  offered  himself  for  a  lecture  tour  up  and  down  the  valley. 
He  no  longer  considered  that  he  was  not  an  accomplished 
speaker;  accomplished  or  not,  he  had  something  to  say  that 
must  be  said.  His  speech  before  the  wine  men  had  reached 
but  a  few  of  those  his  written  arguments  and  former  Wet 
talks  throughout  the  valley  had.  He  must  undo  this  work, 
too.  He  gave  his  days  to  hard  man's  labor  on  the  vineyard, 
and  his  nights  to  lecture  engagements.  The  old  family  machine 
that  had  come  to  cry  its  increasing  infirmities  to  the  world 
was  heard  nightly  on  the  avenue  speeding  toward  some  engage 
ment  place.  And  Duncan  talked.  Oh,  how  he  talked,  no 
embellishments,  no  frills,  just  plain  facts! 

Also  he  kept  his  interest  in  the  Journal,  now  in  McWhirter's 
administrative  hands,  and  abetted  him  in  the  way  of  newspaper 
publicity  in  the  interests  of  the  Drys.  The  change  in  the 
management  had  come  in  the  interval  between  the  tragedy 
on  the  vineyard  and  his  renouncement  speech  before  the 
wine  men.  McWhirter,  expecting  his  opposition  to  the  new 


376  THE    CLAW 

sentiments  of  the  sheet,  had  made  him  an  offer  for  his  interest 
in  it  and  was  dumfounded  at  Duncan's  frank  statement  of  his 
own  change  of  heart.  The  men  at  once  made  alliance,  an 
alliance  of  resources  and  efficiency  that  accomplished  great 
things  for  the  Cause.  McWhirter,  strange  as  it  may  seem, 
stayed  in  the  newspaper  game  because  he  wanted  to.  He  had 
inherited  a  cozy  fortune  some  years  back  and  after  a  trip 
around  the  world,  when  he  visited  the  places  known  to  him 
by  heart  from  his  much  reading,  he  returned  and  showed  up 
the  following  morning  at  the  Journal  office. 

"Well,  I'm  ready  to  go  on  the  desk  whenever  you  want  me," 
he  said  to  Morrison,  and  the  latter  embraced  him  like  the 
p  overbial  long  lost  brother. 

McWhirter  went  into  his  new  enterprise  with  perfect  under 
standing  of  the  probable  outcome.  To  publish  a  Dry  sheet 
in  the  wine  grape  districts  was  waving  a  red  rag  at  the  bulls. 
But,  as  McWhirter  explained  to  Duncan  and  Fessendon, 
"This  sheet's  been  running  long  enough,  it's  been  three  years 
since  it  went  to  smash,  and  I  don't  like  to  see  precedents 
ignored,  especially  by  an  outlander  like  Morrison." 

And  Norris  stayed  with  the  Journal.  It  was  not  really 
the  sacrifice  that  it  sounded,  and  therein  Norris  was  robbed 
of  another  opportunity  of  posing  in  the  "movie  hero"  role. 
With  Hay  ward  gone  (Hay  ward  was  taking  the  Keeley  cure 
and  after  that  he  intended  cutting  out  and  away  from  all 
his  former  associates  and  going  back  east)  and  Winston  off 
the  job — Winston  had  been  afraid  of  the  prohibition  regime — 
little  Norris  had  his  hands  full  and  his  salary  nearly  doubled. 
There  was  nothing  stingy  about  McWhirter.  If  he  went  to 
smash  he  was  going  to  smash  hard.  And  after  that  he  intended 
looking  after  Norris  some  other  way.  He  was,  as  Fessendon 
had  deplored,  childless,  and  he  loved  the  boy.  It  was  that, 
his  affection  and  paternal  concern  for  him,  that  turned  the 


THE    CLAW  377 

balance  of  his  sentiment  in  favor  of  the  Drys.  Fessendon's 
last  appesl  had  been  effective,  too. 

Norris  and  Glad  were  very  happy.  The  wedding  was  to 
be  next  month.  The  only  shadow  that  fell  across  their  felicity 
was  the  news  Norris  turned  up  on  his  beat  one  day.  It  was 
old  news,  not  of  the  sort  rushed  to  the  news  column.  Molly 
McFec  had  committed  suicide  in  one  of  the  baudy  houses 
across  the  track.  She  had  won  the  case  against  Westmeyer 
that  sent  him  up  for  twenty  years.  She  had  come  back  to 
her  old  haunts  and  sought  her  end,  like  thousands  on  the 
same  tragic  road. 

Norris  with  infinitesimal  pains  recovered  the  body  from  the 
potter's  field  and  had  it  carried  to  Cayonsville,  to  the  cemetery 
where  little  Emmy  was  buried.  It  was  the  least  he  could  do, 
and  Glad  abbetted  him.  Molly  had  done  much  for  them,  her 
sacrifice  had  been  great. 

So  they  laid  Molly  away  beside  little  Emmy,  in  "a  real  nice 
place  among  the  best  people."  They  had  a  stone  set  up  for 
her,  a  white  stone.  It  bore  her  name,  her  real  name:  Margaret 
Wilson,  and  the  date  of  her  birth  and  death.  She  was  not 
old,  only  twenty-one.  There  was  a  line  of  reading,  too,  on 
the  stone.  Glad  had  found  it  in  the  worn  bible  of  Norris'  mother. 
They  thought  it  appropriate  for  Molly,  remembering  with 
gentle  gratitude  her  service  to  them,  to  humanity.  It  was 
in  the  words  of  the  compassionate  Jesus,  and  read: 

"She  hath  done  what  she  could." 


CHAPTER  XLIX. 

In  all  of  Duncan's  new  enterprises  and  interests,  in  every 
determination  and  choice  he  had  made,  his  mind  involuntarily 
turned  to  one,  for  council  and  approval.  That  one  was 
Marlinee.  His  need  for  her  increased.  He  could  think 
of  no  fut are  apart  from  her,  as  he  could  not  remember  any 
past  when  he  had  really  lived,  that  had  been  separated  from 
her  presence  and  comradeship. 

Corinne  had  dropped  to  the  most  inconsequential  of  places 
in  his  mind,  nowdays,  these  days  of  fine  new  activities,  of  fine 
new  ambitions  and  expectations.  He  passed  her  occasionally 
on  the  avenue  and  was  able  to  lift  his  hat  with  a  bow  and 
smile  of  the  utmost  unconcern.  Indeed,  the  shock  that  had 
thrown  to  the  ground  the  fabric  of  his  former  life,  with  all  its 
predilections  and  preferences,  had  revealed  his  attachment 
for  Corinne  in  a  new  light.  He  understood  now,  how  misguided 
had  been  the  impulses  that  set  their  ambitions  on  this  girl 
between  whom  and  himself,  by  the  manner  of  their  up  bringing, 
their  different  standards  and  their  whole  out-look  on  life  there 
could  have  been  no  possible  compatibility. 

Marlinee  was  still  in  the  hills.  McWhirter  had  extended 
her  outing  an  extra  week  in  view  of  the  need  he  acknowledged 
when  he  thought  of  her,  and  she  was  still  at  her  cabin.  Mammy 
was  with  her,  now.  Glad,  Norris  had  carried  off  to  his  relatives 
in  Cayonsville,  and  the  trousseau  was  getting  on  beautifully. 

Duncan  held  off  his  desire  as  a  strong  man  holds  off  his  own 
interests,  till  the  greater  are  served.  Then  he  saddled  his 
horse  and  left  for  the  mountains.  He  pushed  Brewster  till 
he  was  wont  to  faint,  across  the  desert  and  wash  and  up  the 
canyon.  Every  step  nearer  his  goal  increased  his  determination, 
and  in  his  new  man's  passion  the  invincible  will  of  his  father 


THE    CLAW  379 

grew.  Marlinee  must  hear  him!  It  was  not  possible  that 
his  being  could  cry  for  her  as  it  did  and  not  her's  for  him.  She 
might  not  know  it,  in  her  naughty  willfulness,  in  the  pretty 
teasing  way  with  which  she  met  the  overtures  of  all  male-kind, 
she  might  try  and  make  him  think,  make  herself  think,  that 
she  had  no  need  of  him.  He  would  show  her;  she  must  see. 

He  had  not  written  her  of  his  coming,  he  wanted  her  un 
prepared,  and  he  was  taken  aback  somewhat  by  the  calmness 
of  her  reception.  It  was  just  at  sunset  that  he  and  Brewster 
came  into  the  open  in  the  clearing  above  the  cabin  and  upon 
Marlinee  in  the  path  just  before  them.  She  had  walked  out 
on  the  trail  to  the  point  of  the  finest  view.  It  was  her  nightly 
custom  just  at  sun  down.  He  could  not  know  that  ten  minutes 
before,  the  view  and  all  else  had  been  forgotten  when  she  heard 
far  below  and  out  of  sight  on  the  trail,  but  distinct,  the  thud 
of  a  horse's  foot  and  a  familiar  voice  in  admonishment.  She  had 
started  up  and  all  the  blood  in  her  surged  to  the  surface, 
tingling.  Her  hands  flew  to  her  breast  and  her  eyes 
looked  like  those  of  a  wild  thing  that  waits  and  listens,  terri 
fied,  yet  glad. 

Now  he  was  there,  just  beyond  that  great  boulder.  The 
next  minute  he  would  see,  would  be  here  beside  her.  "Ah!" 
her  breath  came  in  a  little  gasp. 

He  waited  for  no  preliminaries,  in  spite  of  her  disconcerting 
coolness.  He  flung  the  bridle  over  Brewster's  head — Brewster 
might  go  hang,  if  he  liked — and  throwing  himself  out  of  the 
stirrups,  reached  the  girl  with  a  stride. 

"Marlinee,  this  is  a  token,  you  are  here  to  meet  me!" 

"Oh,  no,"  she  laughed,  "just  to  see  if  that  shiftless  Bil  y 
Baker  has  gotten  my  barn  painted  yet.  See,"  she  pointed 
past  him  coolly,  "he  has,  that's  it  gleaming  down  there  to  the 
right  where  the  sun  strikes  it."  He  caught  the  hand  abruptly 


380  THE    CLAW 

and  drew  her  to  him  till  he  gazed  into  her  face  with  his  steady 
eyes. 

"Marlinee,  look  at  me.  Listen  to  me.  I  love  you!  I 
want  you,  I  have  wanted  you  every  moment  since  I  have  been 
away.  I  wanted  you  the  moment  you  had  gone,  and  I  awoke. 
It  all  came  to  me  then,  at  that  moment.  I  want  you  now  with 
all  my  being  and  my  soul.  You  are  all  to  me  that  a  woman 
could  be  to  a  man.  I  want  your  love,  the  comfort  of  your 
arms  as  on  that  day,  I  shall  never  know  peace  or  happiness 
till  I  have  them. 

"Oh,  I  know,"  as  her  face  dropped,  blushes  turning  to  paleness. 
He  had  carried  her  off  her  feet  by  the  suddenness  of  him,  the 
pession  of  him.  "I  know  what  you  are  thinking  of.  It  took 
me  a  long  time  to  find  out,  and  I  thought  it  was  someone  else 
I  cared  for.  It  was  a  mistake,  the  feeling  I  had  for  her,  Corinne. 
It  is  like — like  anything  pale,  weak,  inferior,  beside  this  perfect, 
this  holy  thing!  I  have  always  loved  you,  depended  on  you, 
lived  in  and  by  you,  ever  since  I  knew  you.  You  know  that. 
But  I  didn't  know — you  were  o  clever,  you  had  so  much  wisdom. 
I  was  a  little  afraid  of  you,  a  little  in  awe  of  you  I  think,1' 
he  paused  and  she  laughed,  a  little  trembling  laugh  with  a 
lilt  of  mockery  in  it. 

" Afraid,  afraid  of  me?  Ah,  but  you  are  so  much  greater, 
you  have  so  much,  so  much  more — 

"So   much    what?" 

"Why,  this"  she  touched  his  strong  arms  with  the  daintiest 
of  fingers,  "and  ibis"  her  ands  went  up  on  his  wide  shoulders. 
"You  are  big,"  she  measured  it  off  with  her  hands,  "and  I 
am  little.  You  are  strong,  and  I  am  so  weak!" 

"Dearl" 

"You  are  a  man,  and  I  am  just  a  woman."  He  laughed 
big  and  deep;  for  the  time  the  momentous  question  was  pairied 
by  her  coquetry,  by  his  joy  in  her. 


THE    CLAW  381 

"I  am  a  man  and  you  are  a  woman,  but  this  grea  and  glorious 
state  of  ours,  says  we  are  equal  and  the  same,  and  you  can  get 
out  and  Svhup'  me  any  old  day  you  like  at  the  polls.  Marlinee!" 
he  gave  her  a  little  shake,  "what  you  going  to  say?"  But 
she  parleyed : 

''You  don't  understand.  A  woman,  a  woman  can  vote — 
oh  yes — and  do  a  lot  of  things  that  a  man  can  and  can't,  but 
she  never  gets  away  from  being  a  woman  and  she  still  has 
to  have  a  man!" 

"Marlinee!" 

"Yes/  a  real  man.  One  that  can  bully  and  boss  her."  He 
shouted  in  merriment.  This  from  Marlinee  who  was  never 
satisfied  to  leave  the  field  of  argument  without  the  proverbial 
last  word. 

"Oh,  of  course  I  don't  mean  one  that  will  knock  her  about 
and  make  her  pack  and  cany  for  him,  but  a  man  big  enough 
and  strong  enough  to  do  for  her,  and  to  think  for  her — she  gets 
so  tired  of  doing,  and  thinking.  No,  I  mean  make  her  do 
and  think  as  she  ought  to.  Not  because  he  has  the  muscle 
to  make  her  do  it,  but  the  heart  and  soul  that  knows.  She 
wants  a  man  bigger  than  herself,  body,  mind  and  spirit;  oh, 
she  does,  every  woman  does!  She  wants  a  master." 

ilMarlinee\"  His  gladness  in  her,  his  surprise  and  joy  in 
the  new  Marlinee  he  was  discovering  was  greater  than  words. 
He  took  her  nervous,  outstretched  hands,  but  she  drew  them 
from  him  gently.  "Wait,"  she  said.  She  seated  herself  on 
a  boulder  at  the  side  of  the  trail  and  he  sat  by  her  in  a  great 
happiness  and  patience,  his  eyes  contentedly  on  the  receding 
valley,  or  absently  watching  a  tiny  gleam  of  his  spur  in  the 
twilight  as  he  hugged  his  crossed  legs. 

"Oh  Duncan,  I  want  to  tell  you  all  my  heart!  I  must, 
before,"  she  did  not  finish.  "I  have  been  just  sick  for  months 
and  years  about  it;  about  men.  They  think  so  little,  they  care 


382  THE    CLAW 

so  little  about  it,  that  they  are  men.  They  expect  a  woman, 
if  she  is  good,  to  be  absolutely  good  and  careful,  and  if  she 
goes  the  least  bit  out  of  the  way  its  all  over  with  her.  They 
call  her,  the  good  woman,  an  'angel'.  And  she  must  stay  an 
angel,  a  nice  lonely  angel  to  the  end  of  her  days. 

.  "But  a  man,  a  man  who  is  the  first  work  of  the  Almighty, 
the  'head  of  the  woman',  it's  no  matter  about  him.  He  can  do 
what  he  likes.  He  has  no  thought,  no  pride  in  his  greatness; 
that  he  stands  in  the  world  a  god,  the  creator  of  life  and  gener 
ation.  He  has  no  thought  to  keep  clean  and  fine  and  honorable 
for  that  work."  She  turned  suddenly  to  him  and  gave  him 
both  her  hands,  laid  them  on  his  breast  with  her  face  close  to 
him. 

"I  love  you,  Duncan,  I  have  always  loved  you!"  her  voice 
came  with  a  quick  intake.  He  had  closed  on  her  hands  so 
fiercely. 

"But  no,  not  yet.  Listen,  dear,  just  one  moment!"  She 
held  him  off,  slipped  from  him  and  moved  away,  standing 
apart,  her  eyes  looking  far  across  the  valley.  He  waited 
breathlessly. 

"I  told  you  I  love  you,  and  its  true.  I  do,  but  I  do  more 
than  that  I  covet  you.  I  have  always  coveted  you,  always, 
ever  since  I  came  to  know  and  understand  other  men.  You. 
are  so  different!  You  have  self-respect,  you  have  pride,  you 
have  pride  in  your  flesh.  And  that  is  everything,  isn't  it?  Life 
is  so  vague ;  we  know  so  little  of  its  purpose ;  a  future — heaven 
and  immortality — yes,  we  believe  in  all  that,  but  the  now: 
to  keep  the  law  of  the  now\ 

"That's  all  we  know,  all  we  really  know.  And  that  is  nature's 
law,  the  law  of  the  God  of  nature;  the  law  all  nature  keeps  in 
integrity,  but  men.  That  law  to  'bring  forth  after  one's  kind', 
to  'increase  and  multiply  on  the  earth'.  How  wonderful 
to  engage  in  the  work  of  creation.  For  two  to  co-operate  in 


THE    CLAW  383 

that  work."  She  spoke  with  awe.  "The  work  of  the 
Almighty!"  In  the  dim  light  he  saw  her  face  diffused,  her 
eyes  alight,  one  hand  to  her  bosom,  the  other  reaching  back 
in  the  darkness  to  him.  He  took  it  tremblingly. 

"To  bring  life  into  the  world,  life  that  lives  forever.  Isn't 
thpt  enough  to  make  one  keep  his  heart  true  and  his  life  clean? 
That's  what  I  saw  in  life,  and  it  was  very  great.  But  there 
were  so  few  great  enough  to  understand,  to  see  it.  None,  but 
you — you.  And  I  loved  you,  I  coveted  you  because  you  were 
great  enough." 

"Dear!    Dear\"  he  kissed  her  hand  with  a  great  reverence. 

"You  mustn't  mind  because  I  thought  of  it  first,  perhaps," 
she  went  on.  "You  must  not  mind  if  I  think  for  you  sometimes, 
ahead  of  you.  It  is  the  mother  part.  And  there  is  always 
that  in  which  you  are  greater,  as  I  said,  oh,  so  much  greater; 
your  strength,  your  arms,  oh,  how  I  have  wanted  them  when  I 
was  tired,  and  I  couldn't  think  enough  for  myself,  I  have  wanted 
my  other  self,  you\ 

She  turned  and  he  smiled,  his  eyes  full  of  understanding 
and  a  happiness  too  great  for  words.  He  held  out  his  arms, 
and  she  came  to  him,  slowly,  delaying  each  step  as  if  the  end 
were  too  dear  to  hasten. 

"Now,"  she  said,  and  his  arms  enfolded  her. 

He  had  no  words  for  the  honor  for  which  her  woman's  soul 
had  chosen  him.  Great  thoughts  passed  through  him,  mighty 
thoughts,  and  his  mind  was  opened.  He  understood  life  and 
love  and  the  meaning  of  all  spiritual  things,  moral  effort  and 
the  struggle  and  travail  of  valiant  souls  against  evil,  the  evil 
that  would  slay  life.  This  was  that  for  which  the  prophets 
and  teachers  had  lived  and  men  died,  the  martyrs  and  the 
Christ;  what  men  like  Fessendon  and  himself,  please  God, 
would  give  their  man's  hand  and  strength  to,  and  all  the 
resources  of  their  minds,  not  for  the  attainment  of  a  remote 


384  THE    CLAW 

heaven  and  the  saving  of  men's  souls  to  eternity,  not  that 
only,  but  this  other  work:  the  regeneration  of  the  world,  the 
world  where  human  beings  live  and  bring  forth;  the  making 
of  it  a  place  safe,  where  men  shall  not  prey  on  other  men  or 
on  the  children  of  men,  but  where  man  and  woman  shall  have 
opportunity  to  live  and  keep  the  royal  law,  to  mate  in  cleanliness 
and  beauty  and  bring  forth  their  kind  in  honor,  that  not  only 
bodies  shall  live  in  peace  and  health  and  prosperity,  but  souls 
in  integrity  and  the  fulfilment  of  the  purpose  of  the  Creator. 
This  was  the  Light,  the  light  that  broke  upon  Duncan's 
consciousness  that  first  night,  bringing  the  beginning  of 
knowledge.  This  was  the  light  elaborating  that  knowledge 
to  all  the  boundaries  of  creation.  This  was  the  Ideal,  not 
an  idealism  remote  and  apart  from  the  purposes  of  life,  but 
its  fabric  and  substance. 

'"MarlineeV     He   took  her  to  him  with  all  his  being.     It 
was  their  marriage  day. 

The   End 


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